Prodigal Son
by ohcEEcho
Summary: Futurefic, Damian/Tim. Bruce never returned. An ostracised Tim Drake shed the cowl and left Gotham for good. Or so he thought. 10 years later, tragedy strikes and he is forced to return, to find that even expecting the unexpected can leave you surprised.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Co-written with my good friend BlueLotus, this is already over 100,000 words long. I'll be posting it in bite-sized chunks regularly, though.

Disclaimer: Is Robincest canon? No. Well...that's debateable, actually, but really, no. Do I own it? No. Don't be bashin' mah slashin', DC.

Summary: Futurefic, Damian/Tim. Bruce never returned, and an ostracised Tim Drake shed the cowl and left Gotham for good. Or so he thought. 10 years later, tragedy strikes and he is forced to return, to find that even expecting the unexpected can leave you surprised.

Pairings: Damian/Tim, mostly. Some Damian/Colin. Past Tim/Kon. After about 50,000 words, Dick/Jason. And a few, brief trysts with OC's.

Warning: There shall (eventually, honest) be porn. There shall be violence. There shall be gratuitous sappiness and ridiculous angst. What? If I wanted canon, I'd go read canon.

Prodigal Son, 1

~Damian POV~

The rain. It will not stop. It has not stopped. Not since.

It does not lash. It commits no abuse to the windows. It is not hostile. Nor does it patter. It simply falls. Drools from the sky, inevitable as Sunset. A black pathetic fallacy on my doorstep. Ever mine. Ours, still, remember. Still ours.

My fingertips are cool. I have abominable circulation, but Dick's brow is warm, perfectly warm. The precise temperature of the healthy, living man. He is as he ever was. My darkened knuckles card against ebony hair, with that tint, that unreal sheen, of midnight blue, that is flecked with the lightest spatterings of grey and white. He had actually SCREAMED when they first appeared. Locked himself in the bathroom. I had laughed. Mocked. Eventually, we settled for 'distinguished'.

Yes. We. Somewhere between here, and the middle...not the beginning...I had become part of a we. I still am, I check myself. Hear Dick's voice. You still are.

I am, sincerely, not worried that he is not coming back. Because I know he shall. I know him, and this cannot tear him from the world. It will take time. But I will never stop believing. No. Not believing. I am above such...fickle, human, uncertainties. Conviction. Not believing. Knowing. The soft hum, hush, gush of breath, and the staccato of beeps, set me rocking, slightly.

I cannot go to the Tower. Already, it has become a graveyard of the blessed mediocrities I shall leave untouched, treasured, condemning the penthouse to museum status. The smell of Earl Grey. The neatly pressed cravats, the breakfast silver, set out, neatly, ready for the morning that will now never come. I shall ask Rose to fetch Marktwo for me. Care for her, for a while.

I lace my fingers. Perceive my bleached pallor and purpled cheeks, beneath my eyes, in the distorted windows. Thick eyelashes. They are abhorrent, incongruous on my face. Sooty, Dick called them. Almond. Arabian. Icy, wolven blue. But my Mother's. I wonder if she still lives. My features are entirely his, though with a slant. A corruption. My eyebrows are certainly...different.

I am, biologically, almost fully grown. A man. 6 foot, 1 inch tall. Broadly built, in all facets. I feel the ghost of a smirk.

"Mister Wayne?"

The hospital staff have been...adequate. Professional. So, I have been civil. They preserved Dick's life. For this, I cannot fault them. And...Pennyworth...he was...he was dead before they got to him. And they are not Metahuman. Superhuman. Much though I wish it.

The nurse has a kindly, round, Southern face "The, uhm, press is outside, as you asked, if you're ready."

My gaze snaps to Dick. And back. Like elastic. She clutches her clipboard, and smiles, uncertainly "I'll sit with him, Sir. Keep him company."

I nod. Stand, with a creak of adjusting adolescent bone. Homunculus, indeed. Someone used to call me that, years ago. The name escapes me. I press my palm, too large, I feel, against Dick's forehead, and press my own temple to my knuckles. He thrives on physical affection. So I shall be bountiful with it. It is not so hard, now.

"I will return. Be better." I murmur, rise swiftly, and leave. I still wear the formal suit, and tie, of that night. They are not particularly soiled. I do not generally sweat much. A little rumpled.

I step onto the drenched pavement to a barrage of flashing lights and noise and sounds and sights and smells and PEOPLE, but allow it to wash, as meditation, dictates, over me, and make my way mechanically to the small, temporary podium. I wish for...at least one body, with me, as my back feels vulnerable and bare, but I must endure it. For there is nobody, yet. Nobody knows, yet.

"Mister Wayne, Mister Wayne! How are you coping at this difficult time?"

"What of Wayne Enterprises?"

"Are the rumours of Richard Grayson's death true?"

I raise a hand. The effect is immediate. My visage, a spectre to most of Gotham of a man long dead, commands respect.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press." I begin, and pause. Breathe in, deeply, allow the crispness of the air to soothe "I..." my throat constricts. I clear it, and continue "It is with deep...personal regret, that I must announce that Richard Wayne is currently comatose. But in stable condition."

Murmurs fly around. I silence them with a thunderous look. My fingers curl around the edges of the podium. Do not shake. It is the structure that shakes. I am standing in the rain. My shoulders grow damp. Rivulets cascade down my face, down my nose, stream desceptively beneath my eyes. I blink, hard.

"The future of Wayne Enterprises falls to myself. Stocks, and policy, shall remain, for now, unchanged." unchanged, oh yes; the only thing that shall, remain "I ask for privacy for myself, and my family at-" by voice cracks and I curse it, damn "at this difficult time."

One word haunts me. Funeral. Funeral. Funeral. After this, I must go, and arrange...the funeral. Choose lillies. Mundane things. Drown in the mundanity of it.

"Thank you." my face is wet. But it is only the rain.

Barbara has been the epitome of sanctity. Like myself, she compartmentalises Dick's predicament away, into some shadowy, but revered and treasured, portion of her brain. And perseveres. Sits me down. Hands me pen, and paper. Says, make a list. And I shall call.

I do so.

Jason, naturally, already knows. His fragility wavers, but he...remains, for now, sane. Cassandra Cain. Stephanie Brown. Roy Harper. Wallace West. Alfred...Pennyworth...his humble magnitude touched so many lives. He permeates. He resonates. He is a constant to an incalculable equation. And I cannot- I accept, but- I cannot percieve a solution to the equation, without his input.

And I must also address, the rising problem of 'Batman's' disappearance.

"Damian." Barbara says, firmly, taps my shoulder, a sharp rap "We're going to the Tower. Now."

Protest would, of course, be futile. And am I too fatigued to fight. Not on this. Bear more hurt, as long as I must not find myself fighting. And besides, it is good to be led, again. Her mechanised leg-braces, an invention of mine, that allows rudimentary walking capacity, hiss and clunk softly as we walk. Yes. Walk. I cannot ride in vehicles, for now. Not since.

It is there, in Dick's bedroom, that I find it. Laid out. Unapologetic. Four types of wrapping paper, plain, meaningful, mundane, laid uncertainly on rumpled sheets. An unfinished note. A neat bundle. I smooth my fingers over the familiar, scratchy loops of ink. Cannot help but absorb the words.

~Dear Tim,

I know I write this every year, but I just want to say again, that I hope you're well, and safe, and doing alright wherever you are. I guess you probably don't appreciate my constant reminders, but...well it's just not in me to ignore a day that should be special, even if it isn't what you want. So, Happy Birthday! Try not to spend it working too hard, ok? I hope you can find somebody to be with today.

And I sincerely hope that you buy yourself at least a slice of cake. I light a candle for you, every year, and blow it out, and make a wish on your behalf, as I'm betting you think that's ridiculous.. I hope you don't mind. I know you won't want anything sentimental from me, but I hope you'll like and accept this years gift. They're top of the range, brand new technology developed by Wayne Enterprises. The material automatically adapts according to internal and external body heat, so they'll keep you warm in the cold and nice and ventilated in hot climates.

Maybe you can adapt, or copy the technology to encompass your whole suit? Anyway, I know I've written too much. Happy Birthday again! Thinking of you, always, little brother.

With love,  
Dick~

My throat tightens. I sift through the paper surrounding the bundle. A pair of gloves. Robin Red, and black. Fitted larger than the hands I recall, a blur, colliding with my face.

Timothy Drake.

He's as much a ghost as a non-entity to me, but to Dick, he's...well, as Jason to my Father. The Great Failure. The One That Got Away. I think, Alfred. He knew Drake. He raised him. The day is tomorrow. Drake turns...twenty six...the day before Alfred Pennyworth will be entombed in the cold, unforgiving Earth.

I do not think about it.

Do not wrap it carefully. But place note and gift, neatly, in a sealed container. Hesitate, then go to the Tower's technical facility. Clutch a portable, message recorder. Smaller than a button. Capable of projecting voice only. Good.

"Timothy Drake." is he even real? Is he even alive, now? "I enclose Richard's Birthday gift to you." I pause, feel something dark, and hot, rise in my belly, a sensation from a bygone age "Many happy returns." I bite, dryly, in a manner quite unlike my current self "I feel obliged to inform you..."

I choke off. Not audibly. But choke. "To inform you that..."

Damn. Damn. Damn.

"The funeral of Alfred Pennyworth will be in one day, at St Mary's cemetery, Wayne Road. You are invited."

I do not think I will regret this. But nor do I think it will end well.

~tbc~

Like I said, this monstrosity is already 100,000 words long. If you want to read more, review, and I'll post daily. Simple!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Installment two! Summary: Tim and Damian apparently still hate eachother. Shocker.

Prodigal Son, 2

~Tim POV~

I stare at the box which is sat on the floor of my hallway.

Damn. Somehow it gets here every year, regardless of where I am living. I am under no illusion that it would not be any of the Waynes who have located me. Most probably Barbara Gordon. I don't wish to pick it up. Instead I leave it sitting at the base of my door, and seek out the quickest form of caffeine that I can find. Some days it is more convenient to just administer it intravenously.

It is approximately 2 hours and 10 minutes before I decide that there is no point keeping the package on the floor. I should at least remove it from my sight. But then it is lingering on my desk, and I am met with the predicament of whether or not to just open it, and then place it at the back of my wardrobe. I suppose that way it'll be out of sight and mind for another year.

So, I fetch the nearest knife – a kitchen knife's serrated edge will be sufficient in breaking the sealant and cellotape, and score the boxes edges. It collapses to reveal a pair of gloves, a letter, and what appears to be a message. It is of the same appearance as a microchip. SGN-2 technology. Wayne enterprises, predictably.

If Richard Grayson is going to babble some rubbish about wishing me to return home, I hardly want to hear it. I discard the dot in the bin, and read the note. It is equally as sentimental. Although that does not stop me from pinning it to the top right hand corner of my noticeboard, at a 37 degree angle. Should he remain in a coma, then I might as well keep his final letter in sight, as a reminder of various things.

It is not until 3am, when I cannot sleep, and have nothing better to do that I decide to play the message. Understand, it is out of sheer boredom, I do such a thing, given I have finished the spread-sheeting that needs to be done, cleaned the entire flat, and prepared for the next day. The message plays.

Something oddly painful sits in the centre of my chest. Alfred Pennyworth. Funeral. The words swim around in my mind. Alfred. Dead. My larynx shuts. I can conclude from the position of the pain that it is not cardiac malfunction, which is causing shallower breathing and general ache. Therefore it must be psychosomatic.

It is not logical, nor practical to leave, and get a plane at 3am. But I do. I absently press clothes into a bag, essentials, my laptop. I don't think there is anything else desirable to take. St. Marys' address is noted. When I arrive at the airport, the plane that I usually take has been prepared, even though it is on short notice. It is ironic how one can be so used to luxury in childhood, due to the name Wayne, and have the same thing in adulthood linked to an entirely different name. A name of my own creation.

I spent the day I despise on a plane. It is fortunate I do so – there are no people besides the stewardess to disturb me. I am forced to communicate with my company, informing them of my departure. It is doubtful that they are even aware of the connection I have with the Wayne corporation. It is not as though I have ridden on that name shamelessly the way others do.

The pain, which must at least be cardiac muscle related, does not subside.

So many of my childhood memories are intertwined with the kind, elderly man who was the quiet saviour of the house. Manor. Whichever title it presently masquerades under. Without controlling anyone, he infiltrated everyone. The final hours of the plane journey are a nauseous affair due to the wind velocity, but we land in Gotham Central Airport without too much hassle. I have my passport checked, visa stamped, and I am through customs.

Another sleepless night awaits, and I spend it trading stock and mentally preparing for the morning. There are a few designs to work on, but they do not fill much time. By 9am, I am dressed and ready, having spent the night in the most low key hotel I can find. I hate the pretension of luxury. The plane is only something I use out of necessity.

By 12:47pm I have arrived at St. Marys. The suit I am wearing is relatively new, and I enter from the opposite side of the graveyard to avoid anyone who could potentially recognise me. I will just remain at the back, pay my respects, and leave. I hope that in eternal rest Alfred will at least find some semblance of peace. If there is a heaven, hell or afterlife (despite evidence against all three), he deserves a happy existence, without chains binding him the way they did here.

At 1pm, it commences.

~Damian POV~

I dressed Jason this morning.

Not entirely, of course. He still has cognition. Lots of it. It is just he'd rather not think today. And I need to be occupied with another's needs. So, I bend his head over the sink. Wash his hair. Comb it back. Tie laces. Tie ties. It is what I regularly do, for Colin.

Myself, Jason, and Barbara attend a small, private gathering around the coffin at dawn. I did not want to subject Jason to the charade and parade of the actual service. He would do better to spend the day sat with Dick. It comforts him. I like to think, that it will comfort Dick too, subconsciously. Jason's runs a hand along the smooth, dark wood. We stand, in the cold, sparsely decorated room, for fifty six minutes.

"Sleep well, old man." Jason murmurs. Turns to me. I nod. Barbara declares she will be back for myself, and accompanies Jason outside, to the car. He still cannot go anywhere, legally, without one of us.

I remain with Alfred, all the way. Do what should have been Dick's duty. I do not think Alfred would mind, however. He was bountiful in his feeling. Undifferentiating. Accepting. He would want me by his side. Perhaps not alone, but I will have to do.

It falls to me, of course, to address the service. More podiums. More pontificating. I need...a drink. It is an oversight, that in my preoccupation, I do not phrodis the door to the Church opening, a silent figure slipping inside, occupying a bare back row, in the shadow of a pillar.

"Alfred Pennyworth." I begin, steadily, and for once, do not think of manipulating my voice; but allow it to be mine, and everything I am, and everything Alfred helped make me "Was the best man anyone could know."

Smiles fill the air. And I think, this is a celebration. A celebration of...of something I did not deserve, will be eternally grateful for, and will, will, do justice to.

"He was friend to those who had no friends. He was Father, mentor, guardian...nursemaid." a few, sporadic, but genuine, chuckles "He made any space he occupied Home. A safe place, a place where all were welcome, where there were always clean sheets, and a cup of something hot, and a kindly, wry, wrinkled smile waiting. Even when, you did not realise you even needed them."

I look around, and feel small, suddenly. Step off the podium, and walk to the coffin. Place my palm beside where Jason's was, in the cold of the morning.

"Rest well, old friend." I murmur, and feel as though it is more than myself, more than Dick, or Jason, or my Father, or everything, speaking "We will never forget. And never stop being thankful." Silence. I return to my seat. It is in an empty row.

I let my eyes slip shut. Hear the whispers, but do not really comprehend them.

"...could've sworn, it was JUST like..."

"...the resemblance really is uncanny, really, I mean, not even just physically..that FACE..."

"...lovely boy, lovely, charming. Alfie would have been so proud, dear me."

The bells ring. I carry the coffin out, among three of Alfred's comrades from an unknown past. The procession passes in numbing blankness.

The deepest of ironies is, that I recognise that ridiculous HAIR first. A decade. He has been absent a DECADE, and he has not ONCE thought to get the God-awful bowl cut sheared? I would laugh if I were not so very close to- yelling. I recognise it as he is walking away, of course.

"Wait." I state. He doesn't. Does not so much as flinch.

The rage. The surge of old, old, old sensations, of bitterness and fear, and hatred, pure and righteous and sweet and simple and CERTAIN, is almost as an phrodisiac. I follow him, a little while. Dreamlike. He did attend. I am not sure if I am surprised or not. But I do know that he makes. Me. ANGRY.

And I have not been angry. Not truly. Not in years. It's like a drug.

"So that's IT, then?" I call after him, and he does not falter, not at all, and red sears in the corners of my vision "45 minutes of your time is all Alfred is WORTH to you, Drake?"

He stops. I smirk, and it feels...old and foreign on my lips. I stalk up to his back. Note, vaguely, that we are now almost exactly the same height "You had better face me, you fucking coward."

I grab his shoulder. I am somewhat ashamed to admit, that that is a mistake.

~Tim POV~

The tone of the entire service is an odd combination of morose and genuine happiness preserved in memories. I am glad it is not an open casket, although my brain cannot seek a reason as to why that could be at present. The lack of processing is probably due to that pain, throbbing away. I should probably seek some form of analgesic upon the return to my hotel room. But it can wait for the moment.

Damian gives a speech. Every word rings true. The positive reaction of the crowd is information enough of how not only his appearance has adapted to look like Bruce. But Bruce is not the creator of the mould that he was poured into, of that I am sure. Syntactically, he is an odd myriad of Grayson-esque language, and the formalities of Wayne.

I observe the crowd silently from the back row. The many people who have filled this church close to the brim are each a scraping of colour on a page. Their figures, now robed in black, give enough information for me to displace their mourning clothes with costumes. The insane era where people dressed up in order to protect the world. Families have grown, children become adults, and it is a world that I am not part of. I'm not sure I ever really was.

Unconsciously, I am grateful for the space between where I am sitting, and where the rest of the gathered masses are.

As I begin to leave, before anyone can actually see me, I hear demands at my back. They do not make me turn. Why should I respond to an angry little boy? It doesn't matter how much you dress up a person in a suit, and liken them to a man, it doesn't change their internal chemistry, nor the genes that they have inherited. Damian can demand all he wants. He does not frighten me. He does not intimidate me. He doesn't make me feel anything. And therefore, is worth nothing. He is just an angry child.

He is accusing me of cowardice. Shouting at the back of my head. It is… disturbing to listen to the elder brother shout through the younger's voice. I'm not sure why I am even in the slightest surprised – they have been together potentially almost every day for a decade. I shouldn't be surprised if their personalities haven't merged.

I wonder if that is even possible? The merging of two synaptic pathways to create a dual personality trait within a single person. I file this information away for later research.

Alfred's name makes me stop. There is a touch on my shoulder. He shouldn't have done that.

Without any warning I move. Crack his wrist and arm sideways, and the 'wrong' way for the joint to turn. I strike the junction between his collarbone and neck with the blade of my hand, and stoop lower to throw him to the floor with all the force I can muster. I bring the wrist to locking position.

"Touch me again, and I will break you. " I say. It is emotionless. A statement of fact. A promise. Now there is no confliction to hold me back, I am capable of anything. I bet it is hardly the Timothy Drake that Damian once knew. I let go, regard him coldly, and then push my hands into my pockets and step away.

Noise penetrates the air. A cellphone. I remain standing in my position out of curiousity.

~Damian POV~

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Not this. Anything, but this. Just not this. I cannot. I can survive anything. Drake and his empty eyes. Colin's regression. Alfred's death. But not this. Please. Not this.

It is a cellphone, for the sole purpose, of relating a code. A crash.

There is mud on my face and my suit. I think my wrist, may be halfway to broken. But that is inconsequential. Drake, who seemed mere moments ago the centre, the focus, the epitome of all things, becomes a face. He is just a face. Squarer jaw. Broader. A man. But not...not him.

But that- I can't-

I feel every wall, every carefully placed intonation, every crafted facade, every defence and method and thought and deed come cascading down around me. I do not breathe. My heart does not beat. I stare through someone's blank, blank face, thrown wide open.

Dick is dying.

"No."

I run.

~tbc~


	3. Chapter 3

~Prodigal Son, 3~

~Tim POV~

It is somewhat intriguing to watch a face that was once schooled to be blank have a plethora of emotions skid across it like an imminent carcrash. Although, judging by the pupil dilation and slight slackening of a jaw, I would assume that fear is the most prominent one. Interesting. Apparently my interpretation of how Damian Wayne would adapt to being around others was incorrect.

I feel very obliged to leave. But instead I follow. At a distance of course, but because our two speeds are inherently different, the gap between us widens, and I am able to just about keep in view where Damian is going. Ah. The hospital. Probably Grayson then. There is a high possibility that he might have been paged by the hospital for one of two things – that he is awake, or that he is coding.

The patient rooms are on the second floor. It is very different from the Japanese structure of hospital, but this I ignore. Instead I ask permission to see him. The nurse informs me that it is a difficult time, but I disregard this and keep walking, accessing the hospital computer system. One of the advantages of heading a company related to hospitals and medicine is that every hospital code has a similar pattern, and it does not take long to locate him.

By the time I find the room, there is an ashen-faced Damian, a couple of nurses floundering, a doctor fumbling over which injection to give, and of course him. Morons. How is this level of incompetency practised at a hospital in America when elsewhere in the world facilities are worse, and yet they have a greater knowledge?

I stand in the doorway, debating as to whether or not to say anything. The doctor still hasn't given a shot. "Give him the adrenaline. Now." I bark. The doctor is more than shocked to have instructions from an outsider, but given his indecision (and to the nurse's horror, possibly his fear of me) he does as is told.

Grayson begins to stabilise. I march over to the doctor on call "Never give an epi to a patient with potential brain haemorrhage, or those who are comatose, regardless of arhymthia you fucking moron. Tell me who is in charge here."

It is not a request, and the doctor gives me a name. Wonderful. How many years of medicinal training has he had? I take the chart, and leave. No one tries to stop me.

~Damian POV~

It's quiet now.

It was so, so loud. The hospital staff, yelling. The scream of machinery, squeaks and creaks and rumbles and thuds, buzzing, hissing, charging, clear. And something inside of me was deafening, as well. And I had stood perfectly still, as reality crashed with Dick, and the world kept going without me.

Drake...

Drake brought it all back.

He brought Dick back. He brought the world back. In the graveyard, I'd doubted he was the same person at all. Oh, the body was the same. Contorted with the progression of time, but the same. But there had been just emptiness in him. Not mournful emptiness. Just...nothingness. And most disturbing, there was nothingness, even as he brought Dick back.

I realise, suddenly, that I am chewing on the stub of my thumbnail. I haven't done that in years. Not since I donned the costume; leather somewhat hinders the tic. It bleeds. I glance at it, then hook it back under the sharp curve of my incisor, and revel in the modicum of pain and the coppery wetness on the tip of my tongue. I am changed. I am just the same. Drake is changed. He is not the same at all.

He had said, in that mechanised voice, that he would be back. As though informing a colleague. Although, what does encourage me, is the total, total, nothingness when he speaks to me. Almost as though he is trying too hard to remain blank. And if he is having to try, that means there is something there. Something.

Speak to him, to Dick, the doctors said. He may hear. It may help. And so I become everyone and everything for him. I knead his shoulder, first. Let my eyes slip shut, and summon a phantom.

"Hang in there, Dick." I say, in the hush of the man who is biologically my Father, manage to temper the imagined slight suppression of emotion beneath the grim facade "I am back, see? I am alive, and you should be too, so on your feet, soldier."

Nothing. I do not consider imitating Jason. I have arranged visiting hours for him, and although it is hard, he talks, dutifully, to Dick, about stupid, Jason things. Jason, dutiful. The world has ended and begun again and been turned upside down, and inside out.

I swallow. My throat is raw. I am about to commit a violation of the dead in the name of the (barely) living "Get well soon, Master Dick. All is well, I am recovering steadily from our ordeal. I am a little rough around the edges but quite well." I shudder, and briefly consider being sick, hate this innate talent of mine "So come back to us. I shall keep the kettle boiling."

I actually gag a little. And then, an idea. A bitter idea.

"Hey...Dick." I adjust the tones, just slightly, to a deeper timbre, but not, NOT, the voice I have heard, from a body from a bygone age; it is, instead, the voice of a young man I...respected. Yes. Respected, and hated, with a strength so potent it still overpowers me. What...would he say?

Eventually, I settle for "I'm here."

~Tim POV~

I ensure that the man responsible for almost neglecting the patient to death is fired. It is the first step to clean up this useless hospital. I am still a little disbelieving that someone who has trained in such a profession could panic that badly. Was it the first night on call? Had the hospital assigned a Wayne someone new and inexperienced? That much alone is incomprehensible.

The doctor I speak to next gives me a full summary of what has occurred in terms of brain damage. The temporal lobe has been extensively damaged. Some of the grey matter between had to be removed. The corpus callosum has been partially severed and the remaining dopamine pathway needs to be stimulated every couple of weeks. Therefore, essentially, if he does in fact awaken, it will take nothing short of a miracle for him to remain the person he was.

This does not, for whatever reason, bother me.

As I talk to this imbecile, it is clear as day that there are no investigative treatments here. So I state the options. He can either hand over the patient's medical care to me, and a couple of colleagues, or I will have him transferred. He agrees to undertake the electrochemical stimulus route. It will involve surgery, and as technical next of kin, will require Damian's signature and consent. I am asked to be the one to seek this. I refuse. I've already done the jobs that were laid out for the staff here, why should I bother to do anything more? It is at this point where I yearn for the simplicity of the culture I have been living amongst.

It is easy to obtain a cup of coffee on the way back to the room. I stand outside to drink it, the heat burning my tongue and easing the edge of two sleepless nights. I really should remember to eat at some point today, or my metabolism will crash.

Damian is talking to him. Doing his impressions, as if he has regressed back to being 10. Bruce I recognise. Alfred makes me clutch at the cardboard more tightly, but it is gone almost as soon as it appears. I wonder what component in his brain, or possibly his plural larynges makes him capable of that. Perhaps it is just a minor rewiring of arteries. I wonder if his mother retained any information regarding it during his pseudo-autopsy.

Then my voice assures the patient that I am present. I snort into my coffee, without any particular humour. That's pathetic. Why would he need any assurance of me? I doubt that I would even occupy one neurone of his memory. Maybe the image of me at 17 was destroyed in the temporal lobe upon the accident?

Well, one can hope. If he should ever wake up, then I will inform him to stop sending me packages. What part of 'I do not want to speak to you ever again' did he just not comprehend?

I down the cup of boiling mud. "I've changed his treatment option." I finally walk into the room. "And surely it would be prudent to do childish impressions once I have left?"

I don't let him get a word in edgeways. This man-child can stay with his mentor. I have a life to return to.

"There is a summary of the various options on his chart. One of my colleagues can give you more information should you desire. It is up to you as to which surgery you choose. "I place the chart back on the bed, where it hangs, and turn to leave.

Finally.

~Damian POV~

I'm not really thinking anything at this moment. That echoing ring, the aftermath of a cascade, fills my empty head. I need to think. He is now, apparently, some form of mechanised emotionless freak. Well. If anyone should contend that sort of disposition, it should be the former grandson of Ras Al Ghul.

I stand. Smooth my tie. Put my hands in my pockets. Relax my muscles, fibre by fibre, in the torso. Neck. Shoulders. Abdominals. I take a breath. And then, I look. Properly. He stares back, impassionate. Impenetrable. I approach him as I would approach a problem. A specimen.

My eyes flit over every inch of his form. The immaculate spaces between the buttons of his shirt. The utterly symmetrical nature of every garment. I need to understand. To form an offensive...and when did I decide this was a battle? No matter. To form the offensive, I need to seek out fissures in this solidity. Then stick my fingers in them, and TWIST.

OCD. It is the first thing that strikes me. OCD. Objectification of people. A sociopath, technically, then. This amount of rigid control, must be fundamentally fragile. To break his hold over himself, I must, at all times, enact the unexpected.

So; I take the clipboard, turn, so he can see. I take the pen in my right hand. Percieve the flit of a microexpression. Because, I am left-handed. I sign slowly. Methodically. At the last curl, E, I allow the pen to slip with an audible squeak, and leave an enormous, inky gash across the paper, marring 6 line boundaries.

"Oops." I say, deadpan, and do not smirk. Because that is what he would expect. What next? I eye the slip of medical paper tucked in his lapel. Spy the Asian letters. Japanese. He's been in Japan, then, makes sense. I can use this.

I place my hands at my sides, perfectly parallel to my torso, and incline my upper body and head, sharply, in an Eastern bow.

"For Dick's life." I say, for once, in my own, uncorrupted voice "Domou arigatou gozaimashita." It is genuinely felt; but what follows is not. I tighten my layrnx, bring my audible self back a decade "Nii-chan."

He turns, without hesitation, and makes to leave. I smile. As Dick would say...gotcha.

"I knew you were a coward." I say, do not move, and allow my thought processes free passage into the cold air "But I did not expect an emotionless monster. You know...I abhorred the Tim Drake I knew when I was a child. But at least I respected him."

He saved Dick. There is something there. This CAN be salvaged. I...this needs to be salvaged. If Drake can be convinced to remain...I can rebuild everything. I cannot be alone in this. I cannot carry Dick, and Colin, and Jason. Not alone. But nor can I ask. No. Not even now, will I degrade myself so thoroughly as to beg this TRAITOR for help. But I may...bully him into it. Persuade. Yes.

"One week." I hold up a slender finger; seven days to break Tim Drake and build him back up, in the image I need "For Alfred. And for whatever vestiges of feeling you have left for the elder brother who loves you."

My eyes narrow "Gotham needs a Batman. Dick did not pursue you. He let you make your own, pathetic choices. But me?" I fold my arms, allow some of the madness I have not felt in me in years, surface like a crimson apple on the skin of an untouched lake "I do not give a shit what you want."

I can do this. I think I am the only one who can do this. Bring him back.

"I am going to drag you back kicking and screaming with every bone in your body broken if I must." I say, and it is not an outburst, it is a fact. I take a step closer. Then another. Evaluate, how close, is too close? File the fact away for offensive use "I know the weak, pathetic, whiny manchild is still in you, and I am going to crack you open and beat the SHIT out of him."

Nothingness still. But I have time. The universe was built in a week, some say.

"Do not underestimate me." and this time, I am sure it is I to leave, pausing to brush my lips, just, past his ear, too fast even for his reflexes "Or I will break you."

Then, I smile Dick's smile, cock my head to the side, and say politely "One week! Remember. Sayonara~" I close the door.

This may even be fun.

~tbc~


	4. Chapter 4

~Prodigal Son, 4~

~Tim POV~

Once again, Damian is in my way. As he has been before, and undoubtedly be again. He watches me, scrutinises with eyes that are direct descendants of Talia al Ghul. At least I was right in one thing. Regardless of the conditioning that he has received given _he_ was his mentor, one cannot disregard one's upbringing. It is not something that you can change, or manipulate to your own will.

He is attempting to take me apart cell by cell. I shall only return the favour. Watch, and wait for my opportunity as I have always done. There are two battling halves of my psyche - one desires to retain all sense of dignity and walk away from such a spoiled, arrogant little shit. The other wants to beat him at his own game.

I can feel my fingers twitch as he purposely signs with the wrong hand, and then desecrates the piece of paper that is clipped to the chart board. He is attempting to get under my skin. But I will not allow such trivial things to work. Regardless of what he says or does. I remain unsurprised and blank as he speaks the tongue that I have been in the midst of for over five years. The direct disrespect makes something clench in my stomach. I do not let it be perceived on my expression. It is easy to control muscle groups if they are singular and separate from ones hands. That I found out a long time ago.

I am not going to stand and be lead on one second longer. This time, when I turn to leave, I keep walking. Professions of respect are instantly categorised as lies, so it is simple to remain functional. Accuse as you see fit, Wayne child, but I am not your family, nor your friend. And I am not going to waste my time listening to a word you say.

Alfred appears to be his bargaining card. I consider. It could be beneficial to remain in Gotham briefly. To make a study of his behaviour. Perhaps if I can get some form of brain chemistry analysis it can lead to furthering behavioural studies in Tokyo. Or alternatively it can be used to stimulate dead personalities like the patient's one, potentially. If I could determine precisely what makes Damian Wayne 'tick' then I could use it to my advantage.

Or use it for medical treatment. Prevent my urge to give him a lobotomy.

It is the threats that lend me a form of minor amusement. Does Damian really think that, given a head on fight, he could win? I'm sure given his musculature that if it was a hand to hand wrestle, I would be at a severe disadvantage. But I do not spend my nights leaping off of rooftops anymore. I spend them training with the masters. He could not even defend the attack in the graveyard.

He is behind me. In my space. In my bubble. And I do not like it. The skin outside of my ear twinges from stimulus. I sharply jerk away, but by that point, he has disappeared with the promise of mischief. Fantastic. Why do I get the sense that I have released a demon? Cut the chains on Cerberus and am being sized up for meet, the way only a three headed monster can.

How dare he call me a monster. Did he not see his childhood reflection?

Leaving the hospital is simple. Getting on the bus back to the hotel even simpler. I don't want to be driven around like a Wayne would be. Room 67. A comfortable prime number. I unlock the two bolts on the door, and enter the corridor.

It is visible almost immediately. My fountain pen. Lying polished and silver as the day I bought it, except for the large black splatter of ink that lies across the broken nib, and the cream carpet.

I clench a fist, unclench. Stop moving. Take a breath. He is here, that much is evident. In my space. Yet again.

I pick up the pen. The nib is completely crushed, and the stain is not going to come out of the carpet with ease. I take off my suit jacket, and hang it over the door, moving to my laptop (which looks like a safe space at least) ignoring the undoubtable presence in my room. I will change hotels tomorrow.

~Damian POV~

Finding the correct hotel room was, of course, exceedingly simple. Drake had concealed himself beneath a corrupted, Japanese form of one of his aliases, Yami No Yoru. Cute, Drake.

This is merely a preliminary stage to an ongoing process, of course. I have a number of creative ideas as to how to emotionally stress Drake to breaking point. And, have considerable fun while doing so. But I shall start with disrupting his personal space. And material possessions. Give him no place to stabilise, or regroup. This truly is a crusade.

"Good evening, Tim." I say congenially, bounce a little on the (comfortably rebounding) mattress "I assume you will not be throwing your legs up over your head on this, anytime soon." I shake my head, faux-morose "Shame. What a waste."

I'm not entirely sure if the double-meaning is for Drake's benefit, or mine. I am working purely on the prior knowledge, that Drake is a complete and utter prude. And now apparently a stiff, too. I had time to change, barely. In light of the attitude of 'chaos reigns', literally, I have donned Dick's old 'tinkering' jeans, covered in mechanical grease, and frayed. A triple affront. They stink of Dick. They smear irremovable stains on the sheets. And I wear them. Also, an old, periwinkle blue shirt, and one of Alfred's knitted sweaters. They...comfort me, also. As well as incense Drake.

I wear no shoes or socks. Just because. It was exhilarating to walk barefeet in the rain, besides. I had used his shower. And his shampoo. And conditioner. (WHAT). Noted the lack of shaving apparatus. Amusing. I leave a trail of mud and filth, and am still wet, dripping, and my hair now smells of his. Oddly, I feel...better. Refreshed.

He stands, fists clenched. I lean over to the bedside cabinet, knock a neatly stacked pile of papers over. They fall to the floor in a haphazard cascade.

I raise my eyebrows at him. Feel gleefully, as a child breaking unbroken boundaries. Adrenaline pounds in my veins like a drug. My cheeks fill with heat. My eyes feel bright, and wide like a boy. I make my way, in sudden bursts of movement, around the room. Break a china cup with an almighty crash. Step in the shards. Smear blood into the fibres of the carpet. Open the wardrobe. Toss clothing on the floor.

Then, my eyes alight upon the greatest treasure. The LAPTOP. It calls to me. Break me, break me! Break me like you want to break Drake! Alright. Control, now. Do not descend too much into this. I do not just knock it to the floor. I pick it up, feel the weight of it.

"This looks important. This looks like your whole life."I smile, widely, and toss it out of the sixth storey window.

Silence. Silence. Then, distantly, craaaaash. Thud. And a car alarm. Meow!

I am crushed to the wall before I can think. A vice grip around my neck, unforgiving. Not exerted pressure. Merely a hold. I do not struggle. Drake breathes evenly and deeply. Too evenly. His nostrils flare, his eyes are narrowed, just a fraction. I incited him to act. This is good.

The heat coiling in the pit of my belly, however, is decidedly NOT.

It is an odd, blossoming revelation. My throat feels dry, my lips feel dry, and I lick them absently, and swallow, but purposefully, allow the bob of my Adam's apple to rise like an ecstatic body against the brush of his fingers. I can almost feel my pupils dilate, as I realise, and remember, oh. That is the reason for the potency of my hate, so long ago. It was stunted. It was infertile. It lacked hormonal drive, and it plagued me like a disease.

The seed of sexual attraction. Well, I...how...unexpected. His breath is cold against my face. It makes me think of empty tunnels. Hm. Killer Croc. What a croc. Hm. Now there's an idea.

I bite suddenly into his personal space, teeth passing the tip of his nose, and he reacts as I predict, swinging a forearm up to block the blow. I grin, feel a little mad, am disturbed, then discard it, and lick the skin against my mouth with a quick dart of my tongue, like a kid licking a playmate's restricting hand.

THIS time, he leaps away, and I laugh, long and deep and hard, until I am breathless.

"This was amusing! We'll have to do it again sometime." I am sure, again, to be the one to leave; it is it's own form of empowerment "One nothing to me, Timmy."

I leave with a spring in my step, and with vestiges of myself and of Dick smeared all over his little Ice-Queen cave. Perhaps this will be easy, after all.

~Tim POV~

It is getting progressively more difficult to ignore the little shit that is bouncing on my bed. The initial sense that assaults me is that of smell. There is grease in the air – the kind of non-hydrogenated fat that goes with oil. It makes me want to vomit. There is still a small trace of humidity in the air. He has used my bathroom. This sudden interference in my life bewilders me. Why would anyone bother me now? It has been ten years. Surely it is a little late to commence any form of assault now?

Or is he just desperate given his mentor and pseudo-father are dead or as good as dead? It is unfamiliar to think of Damian as having any form of emotional connection to anything, but clearly it has been formed in my absence. Maybe he had had a gland removed or a hormone overstimulated with the Al Ghuls, and in the presence of Grayson that has gradually metamorphosed. I would love the opportunity to study such a thing. It is just unfortunate that it would involve being around him whilst Damian was conscious.

What would be the reason to use the abbreviation of my name? An attempt to revert back to childhood rivalry? Emulating _him_? Then attempting to sound disappointed? Please. Jason used that tactic when I was about 12 years old. Thirteen years later, and there is no chance that I will ever fall for such a thing again. He can torment as he likes. I will not rise to it.

I force myself to still as his assault on my space begins. I feel dishevelled and dirty from the day, and lack of sleep. He is on my bed, having left stains and smells all over it, so I will not be able to sleep there either. I will have to leave immediately. Before I have realised my body's betrayal, my hand has clenched so tightly that my nails cut into my palm.

My documents fall to the floor, and I am powerless to stop them. I remain where I am – this section of ground at least is safe. There is nothing beneath my feet, and I do not have to move, thus, leaving one small amount of space to myself. I can beat this psychopathic person. It will just take concentration, and resolve. But when have I been lacking in either?

There is blood on the floor. Then clothing, and I keep breathing, controlled. I can feel bile rising, and force myself to swallow it down. I can always disinfect my clothing at a later date, or at least attempt to buy new ones. His eyes positively glitter however, when it lands on my desk.

I feel panic begin to rise.

My laptop. All my work. My files, my stocks, my research papers in process. How much of it have I saved? How much did I back up? My heart pounds in my throat as it goes soaring out of the window, light glinting off the sleek black lid, and then disappearing out of sight. I can feel my body vasoconstricting – blood leaks out of my face to fuel other parts of my body.

Again, that terrifying instinct leaps, and I move fast towards him, bodily shoving him into the wall. My right hand curls around his trachea, and presses lightly. I know the point at which a person stops breaking, and is forced to draw oxygen from their bloodstream alone. I know just how hard to press to ensure that resuscitation is not possible. This I unfortunately not do. My fingernails scrape against the wall as they ensure the hold cannot be escaped.

I'm sure that my pupils have constricted out of sheer rage, which I have not felt in a long period of time. My teeth are gritted. I so badly want to squeeze the life from under my fingernails. But I desist. And I must play straight into his game, given he bites at me, mere millimetres away. I block, then keep my stance firm until I feel saliva and cool air combined on my arm.

Ugh. That is truly revolting. That forces me to move. I am going to have to shower in bleach to wash that off.

He is gone.

What was the purpose of all of that? Just to get me riled? I noticed the pause between my (narrowly preventing myself from) crushing his windpipe and his forced swallow. What the fuck does he think he is playing at? There is immeasurable tension between us, but never has it struck me to be of that sort, until that moment.

If it wasn't for the fact that I despise physical contact, I could use it. What do I have in response to his arsenal of meddlings?

I stiffly begin to gather my belongings. The clothes that are left on the floor remain there. I take the only things from the wardrobe that remain there, leave the toiletries, and only pick up vital portions of confidential documents and leave the hotel.

I do not even bother to check out. The place I head for is Alfred's old safehouse. It is a pristine flat, and still has some of my clothes in it from the last time I moved away from Grayson and that whole family. I am grateful for the triple locking system on both the bedroom door, and the front door.

By this point I am feeling a little unstable physically – I still haven't eaten anything, but I do not feel in the mood to. I do not even have my laptop to tinker with and control. Damn him. Instead, I sit on the bed, and fall asleep virtually instantly.

Three hours later, and I am very fortunate to realise that Damian is not anywhere within the vicinity. That is somewhat comforting.

I change into a different shirt, wash both my face and hands, and decide instantly to find something to steady my nerves. It has been a long time since I have drunken any form of American alcohol, and it is certainly stronger than the sake that they serve near Shinjuku.

I leave my belongings inside a safe at the bottom of one of the wardrobes, just in case there is a break in. And there is only one person who would bother committing such a crime.

I am in luck, it appears, as there is a small bar near the end of the road. In a dark blue shirt, I feel normal enough to blend – I changed the pants for jeans eventually despite my discomfort. It doesn't take long to have a gin or two. I am sat in the furthest booth away from the bar. The drinks are being served, and this I do not question.

Nor do I notice anything is wrong until I reach for my third glass and find that I am unable to focus on pulling my hand up. That is odd. I try and move my fingers, and there is a distinct time difference between the motor cortex sending out the signal and my body responding.

Well shit. It appears that someone has taken advantage of my not being able to see the bar.

And true enough to assumption, a man slides his way into the booth beside me. I try not to let panic rise. He is well past my bubble's periphery.

"G'the fuck 'way" I slur out, and realise in that small sentence just how well and truly in trouble I am. I can't even remember the compound that people use for this type of thing. He is close to initiating skin contact. I move away as fast as my body will respond, only to find the back of the booth against mine.

"Hey there pretty boy. Looks like you picked the wrong bar, cupcake. "

He grabs at my wrists. I struggle, but my body is not obeying my brain. I attempt to punch, and it comes across as a slap. He grins and moves closer.

I knew Gotham was a bad idea. Why do I insist on returning to this place?

His hand is on my side. The other is grabbing a wrist. Fantastic.

I am definitely going to have to bathe in bleach in the morning.

~TBC~


	5. Chapter 5

~Prodigal Son, 5~

~Damian POV~

What was, at best, an eventful day, and at worst, an emotional castration, quietens and darkens into one of the longest nights of my entire existence.

As I walk, slowly, back from Drake's hotel (I still cannot find it in me to get inside a vehicle, which will become problematic in the near future, no doubt) my cellphone, not Dick's emergency line, goes off. The familiar peal of the Emperor's Imperial March from the original Star Wars trilogy sings into the empty air. I roll my eyes. Dick had assigned this ringtone for Jason. It is...appropriate, I suppose.

I flip it open and place it to my ear with some trepidation "Yes, bane of my existence, what is it?"

I am rewarded with a hoarse, amused chuckle. Jason and myself...are not exactly...well, friendly is not the correct term. We have an understanding. And I pay for his therapy. Well...Dick did. But I am in charge of those finances now. Allah. I must sort those, too, tonight.

"D-Man! These assholes are refusin' me nurture again. Do somethin' bout it."

I roll my eyes "Which is it this time? Whores or the Demon Drink?"

"BOTH!"

"Jason, we've been through this. You can't have any visitors besides me, until you get to a level 4 on that retarded psychological goody goody scale...thing. And things are looking pretty bleak on the concubines. Just so you know. Deviant."

He snorts. I sift through why he really called, in the brief pause "I've got you scheduled in for ten until twelve. Unsupervised. Remember to talk to him. And...afterwards, you, me, and some motorbikes. For a bit. But I am busy."

"Well gee, sorry to enroach-"

"Encroach." I correct, and rub my temple.

"ENROACH on your valuable time, MOM." then, just like that, he snaps back, like elastic, and is all smiles "oop, time for crocheting! Thanks, baby D. Catch ya later."

The dial tone goes flat. Ugh.

It is the first of a stream of calls. Oracle. The press. The press. More press. A journalist. The dentist. The press. Roy Harper, enquiring for a visiting time, which I am surprised at. I had assumed he would simply go to see Dick when he pleased. I am...touched, by his sudden and distinctly odd adherence to etiquette. I tell him to go when he likes. It cannot hurt. Then, Wallace West, telling me he was WITH Dick and could he change his 'God-awful shirt' please.

...

And, finally.

"Mister Wayne? This is Marie Pavlova from the Phoenix institute."

Oh, no.

"Yes? Please be brief." I am brusque, but the staff at Phoenix are used to that. They know I am not hostile. Or they would not allow me inside.

"Just a minor disturbance, Sir, I...the nurses tell me that patient Wilkes is distressed and calling for somebody named Rory? Would you happen to know who that is?"

Morons. Idiots. BACTERIAL FUNGAL TOE GROWTHS, the bloody lot of them.

"I am on my way."

"Oh...well, alright sir. We shall tell Wilkes to expect you."

The venom in Colin Wilkes, Abuse, which once gave him superhuman abilities, has become ever more of a curse as he grows older. It was designed to manipulate the body of a child, into an adult. And so, as he draws ever closer to BECOMING that adult, the venom and its effects become ever more painful. Excruciating swellings, and bones force to expand and expand and then expand further. I have dedicated an entire branch of Wayne Industries to research. And many sleepless nights. Little success. Yet.

And that is merely the physical effects.

Psychologically, the inverse is true. His psyche inches ever more towards infanthood, with every passing day. He always knows me. Is always pleased to see me and, I think, always shall be. But his cognition dwindles. And his regression frustrates him. He cries, ever more often, sobs, sometimes, hiccoughs, or just soundless streams of moisture, mouth agape in misery.

It is this that breaks me, more than anything else. Dick, at least, is not in pain. Jason, at least, is safe, and shall, eventually recover. But Colin...Colin, I lose, steadily, moment by moment.

He is in the immediate aftermath of a tantrum when I come to him. They did not put him in the padded cell, or restrain him, as I threatened bankruptcy in that event. Instead, I pay for any damages he accidentally inflicts. He has clearly just shrunk once again. His hair is dank, his eyes wide and red and sore, his fingernails bloody. His fringe needs trimming.

"Hey." I shed my jacket, place it around his shoulders, like a shroud "I hear some moron took Rory away, but listen."

I hold up a hand to his quickened breathing, and he quietens "He's just been taken to be cleaned, because he was dirty. Ok? You wouldn't want Rory to be dirty and sad and sick, would you?"

It breaks my fucking heart. So fucking much. Talking down to him like, like- but he IS. Dammit, he is a child. Shit. He sniffles, and shuffles closer to me.

"Rory...clean?"

"Yeah." I card a hand through his hair, tug him upright, lead him to his cot in the corner of the room "Yeah. And I'm going to bring him back. When the big hand and the little hand are at the top. Alright?"

Another nod. He balls my jacket into a bundle, and clings to it. A surrogate. I draw the blankets up around his bent, ridged back. He believes me, always. Because I never let him down. At least, not in the useless, ridiculous, pathetic, meaningless little things. I can't...fix him.

I leave when I am assured he is asleep. Spend the next few hours in a blind, distorted haze of garbage trucks and bin bags and refuse and vomit and piss. I finally locate him- uh, the soft toy, Rory- in a trashcan on the corner of the adjacent street to Phoenix Institute. He is filthy. He will need cleaning, and repairing. His torso is torn.

I shiver. I am drawn by the light and the warmth of a nearby bar. I may wash the toy in the sinks in there; I happen to know the owners of the establishment, Linda and Liz. Half-caste twins. Good memories. They may lend me some thread and a needle, and, hopefully, a strong drink. Or two. Or ten. My feet are blistered and swollen, bleed quietly into the material of my shoes. There is still some of Drake's china cup embedded in them.

Lucius Fox calls as I enter the bar. I resolve to contact him later. Much later. But tonight. This Dante's Inferno ride into Hell.

"...cupcake?"

Ugh. Some beefed up delinquent is hassling a dark haired woman in a corner. A seemingly completely inebriated, dark haired woman. I wander over, and land a roundhouse kick to the side of his thick skull. The slump and THUD of his descent is distinctly satisfying. K.O, as Jason would crow. The bar goes silent, and stares. I realise, conspiciously, that I am covered head to toe in yoghurt and spinach and Chinese takeout and Lord knows what other shit, and...clutching a plush toy.

I glare "Does anybody feel like challenging the dumpster man holding the teddy bear!" sheepish mutterings "I did not think so."

I turn to help the woman up. And find- "Drake?"

He glares icily at a point somewhere just to the right of my ear. I lean in and stare hard at his pupils. Dilated. Catch the scent of something sharp and chemical on his breath. A drug. Several, in fact. This is...unexpected. Very. Perhaps...perhaps I rattled Drake more than I had assumed. Which is good, is it not? Except, it does not feel good. With a seven foot pervert with a sore skull on the floor, and a doped up fool sprawled inelegantly at my feet.

After a moment's deliberation, I extend my hand "On your feet, soldier."

~Tim POV~

It takes a while to fully understand what has just occurred. Admittedly that might be due to the not-so-legal high running around in my system. It wasn't my fault. Oh no, it was that guy's fault, who was about to molest me. But hey. I suppose the night could have gone worst. At least whomever decided to rescue me was being nice.

That is up until the point that I realise it's Damian back to haunt me. Hasn't he done enough already today? He's come here to steal my drinks too? Oh. Ohh. Okay, so apparently I'm hallucinating as well as being drugged. Did he actually just knock that guy out? And .. is holding a teddybear?

I might have to check to see if whatever I was given has acid flashbacks, because this better be a trip.

Is that... spinach on the side of his face? He looks like he's been dumpster diving. Which is pretty gross really. I don't particularly want to take his hand, given it is covered in something white, and sticky looking (I don't even want to think about where it has come from or to whom it belongs) but it doesn't seem as though anyone else is going to help me up in this god forsaken place, so I might as well take it.

Ugh. Gross. I try not to snatch my hand away as I use his to stand. Except standing, for whatever reason, is more of a task than it had been before. I manage to get to upright, before the world tilts forward, and I bowl over into him. Fuck. Of course. As if Gotham hasn't already taken the piss, as I am MALE and have just been DRUGGED with something that is likely to be used for DATE RAPE.

This city really has gone to the dogs.

Falling on Damian is something akin to falling on a mat in a dojo. It should be squishy, but it's not. More like landing on a pile of bricks really. "Fuck. " I hiss, face now apparently buried in a collarbone. I just about manage to push myself off, hands squared beside both his shoulders. This is a lot harder than it looks. I claw at the table for support, and just about pull myself to a seated position, and off the person I was just lying on.

I shudder. There's day old Chinese food all over my shirt. God, just the knowledge that it's there makes me want to vomit.

I am going to have a serious intracranial pressure problem in the morning. Ow.

_"You know, Drake, if you wanted to get on top of me, all you had to do is ask."_

Huh. And I was expecting him to tell me off for weighing a lot. After all, he calls Steph fatgirl. Or used to. That was a long time ago! I wonder if Steph has put on more weight. Last time I got shown a picture of her from Conner, she had a bit of a muffin top.

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have to ask!" .. Wait. . " That didn't make sense." My brain knows that didn't make sense, but my mouth is running away on tiny little legs that the drugs gave it. He looks somewhat bemused. And then the world is spinning again. I think… I just got picked up, by a midget who is now 6 foot tall, or whatever.

"Damian! This is highly undignified!" I protest, but I think it falls on deaf ears, seeing as two minutes later, I remain still over his shoulder like a worn out knapsack. My arms are dangling. I don't have the energy to move them, nor, at this present point in time, the co-ordination.

We're halfway down the main street when I find myself staring at his belt loops. My fingers have been dangling there (getting cold, I might add) for over ten minutes, and there hasn't been anything to hold onto, until now. Or did I just not notice? I grab at the loop, and tug. I don't know why I do it, I just do. "You know" I say, regarding all three of the gluteal muscles of his ass. "You're really square. That's quite aesthetically pleasing."

Did I just...?

I'm coming out with real gems today. This is something I will severely regret in the morning, the still sane part of my brain registers, but I file it away in the cabinet marked "to deal with tomorrow'".

I let another ten minutes pass – or rather amuse myself with the belt loops. The are all uneven. But surprisingly mostly clean, unlike the rest of him. "And you're really tall now! I didn't think Hobbits grew."

We're close to Alfred's sanctuary. An old apartment he renovated and rented out to visiting...British people. How did Damian even know...?

"Who's your friend?" I ask, considering the teddy that has been swinging with Damian's steps ever since we exited the bar.

~Damian POV~

I stop dead. Drake grumbles as his face swings into the small of my back. Well, it is his own fucking fault. For going out, and nearly being...Christ.

I feel stretched thin. As if one arm had remained buried in Colin's hair. Another holding Dick's hand. Yet another, caressing the coarse material of Jason's tie, the morning of the funeral. I feel...as though I am leaving parts of myself with each of them. Like a slowly crumbling man of bricks. Or a Russian doll, who keeps losing layers, growing smaller and smaller with every...every...every time I must drag myself up and swallow EVERYTHING and smile and walk on, on, on.

I close my eyes so tightly, their sooty stickiness must be leaving bar-trenches in my cheeks "Rory." I murmur.

Then, because...because I simply must tell someone. Cannot allow anything else to build up, and up, and eat at my empty insides. Besides, Drake shall not remember "He is very special to my..." boyfriend? Partner? Ex of both the previous? "to someone who means very much to me."

And he's probably going to die soon. I saw it in his eyes, today. He is beginning to give up.

I want to say it, but I cannot. Not to Drake. Not when he is the only damn person there is who is sentient enough to even ASK these questions. Not when I am flaying myself to death, must play the role of the bully, the antagonist, once again, but be the bad guy, who breaks him just so he will stay. Because...I need...because Gotham needs. But why bother, Wayne? Why fight? Why invest yourself any further, when you barely have anything left to give, as it stands?

Because it is my only hope, right now. And that is pretty fucking pathetic. I draw a deep breath. You will stand. You will move forward. You will do all you must, because there is nobody else.

"Because there is nobody else." I repeat, and walk, and drown out any further comments from the drunken idiot, whose weight is considerable against my skin. Yes. Weight. And to think, that he is the lightest of my burdens.

I know where Drake will have moved to, and draw some smugness in finding myself proved correct. Even further smugness, in the less than impressive resistance the triple-lock system provides. Drake moans and clutches his stomach, eyes overbright, and empty in a different fashion. I draw my unravelling threads together. This, I can do. This I have done a million times before.

I carry him to the bathroom, and stick my fingers down his throat. Hold his neck firmly and his hair free as he vomits. Count. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. I fetch water, and run a fingertip across his Adam's apple to force a swallow when he will not. I barely notice that I am automatically soothing his back and the crown of his head with my palms, and blink, and recoil, a little sickened. This is not Colin. Nor Jason. This is not my friend. This is not even my ally.

I change his clothes unthinkingly. Neither particular notice nor care at how he struggles to pull away. There is nothing in my fingertips. There is nothing in my head. Just what has to be done. Why? Because...because...because it matters. I carry him to the bed. Place pillow. Pull covers. Watch him curl.

Now.

I find a needle and thread in the lapel of one of Alfred's- god, Alfred- old waistcoats. The needle shakes, which is odd. Perhaps it is magnetised. I wash Rory gently in warm, soapy water. Watch the grime and the blood and the grease swirl languidly down the plughole. Things can grow better. Dick says. Always. Sometimes you just can't quite see it yet. My stomach is so empty it is inside out.

I return to Drake. Or at least, the cold floorboards beside his bed. His eyes follow me. I cannot bring myself to care. I stumble, fold myself into a cross-legged position, set Rory in the cradle of my legs. Ignore the seep of water. To Colin, he is real, and so I prod his stuffing back inside with utmost care, and stitch as though mindful of real flesh. The button of his eye is coming loose, and so I fix that, too. We draw ourselves back into a whole together, in the semi-dark.

I frown, eying some spots of moisture on his drying fur that had not been there before. I glance up at the ceiling. No drool. No leak. Nothing. So what-

"Oh." I murmur, enfold Rory against my stomach, bring my knees up, my filthy knees, rest my forehead upon them, and grieve. For the dead. For the dying. For the living.

~TBC~


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This chapter introduces JASON POV. Be warned! He's not angry anymore, but he is still a nutty little nut.

Shukran = 'Thank you' in Arabic.

~Prodigal Son, 5~

~Tim POV~

Rory. That's the name of the bear. And it belongs to someone important. Ok. Facts to be filed away for the evening, sorted! The rest of the walk is blurry. In fact, by the time we get to Alfred's abode, I feel particularly nauseous. I am unceremoniously dumped in the bathroom, and as a consequence, feel bile and acid rising. There is not much that I can physically do at this point - everything feels very strange and sluggish. My muscles do not obey. My hands cannot grip. Mercifully my mouth has developed its own common sense, and is presently remaining shut.

Not two seconds respite, and I have fingers in my throat, and it is enough to make me vomit. Colours, and the room swims. It is vile, and disgusting, and I feel thoroughly dirty. I don't remember really anything being in my stomach, but regardless, coffee and alcohol come swirling up, along with a good proportion of water. Well, at least I know that prior to this, I had not been dehydrated. Damian kindly offers me water, which I take clumsily and promptly drop. He then gives me more water, and forces me to swallow. It is undignified to be manhandled. And it is wrong that Damian of all people should be so far in my personal space, but the one plus of being drugged is that things such as those no longer exist, or matter.

Somewhere, in the very far depths of my thoughts, I register that this is not what I would expect of Damian. That this behaviour is kind, regardless of my opinion and actions around him. Why would he even do such a thing? This is so out of character for the image of the Son of the Demon I have in my head, that it feels as though it has fallen out of one of Grayson's ridiculously shiny childhood storybooks.

The ability to perceive things is now becoming more acute, at the very point that Damian begins to put different clothes on me. And I can't control my unbridled terror when he starts pulling at the shirt. I feel better for a change of clothes, but that doesn't stop me quaking like a moron. I am moved to the bed. It is comfortable, and I curl up underneath the blankets. There are going to be consequences for my stupidity in the morning, which I will have to contend with, regardless of what they might initiate or elicit.

I can only watch silently in the illumination of the moon, as Damian sews the soft toy with care, and then breaks. That child -adult hybrid must be a changeling. Because never, under any circumstance, could I have envisaged Damian Wayne breaking down, or crying. I must know who the owner of the toy is. It would be absolutely invaluable information in determining how Damian's psyche has metamorphosed. I will find a way to get it out of him.

He leaves close to midnight, and I do not sleep. After the events of the night, I feel awake, and shaky. I vomit a couple more times, mostly the water that I have drunk, and the uncomfortably empty sensation settles on me as a blanket would, shrouding my senses with a lull of false security. At 2am he returns, and I am back in bed, having taken a blood sample for testing in the morning. I am at least sober enough to stick a needle in my arm - that might be, for anyone else, an indication of prior drug abuse. For me, it just an indication that regardless of the situation, I can have steady hands, should it be necessary.

When I hear footsteps retreating away from where I am, I frown. So he has also checked that I am still.. what? Alive? Conscious? Breathing normally? And where has he disappeared to now? Curiosity killed the cat. But with Damian Wayne, satisfaction will definitely bring me back. He is sprawled across the floor. I wait. An hour passes. I now have ensured that the lack of sound was either due to him having left, or to him being asleep. I am correct in the latter.

He looks exhausted. I'm not sure that is relevant to anything I do, but it is a fact that I should puzzle. The death of a close personal friend and the coma of a mentor undoubtedly takes its toll, but the sleep of the dead comes from physical exhaustion - too many nights awake. The fact that within the space of an hour and he has entered REM, and delta sleep combined puzzles me. Comprehension has always been my strong suit, but this does not adhere to any of my theories.

I assess the best way to move him. Letting him sleep on the floor would be improper. And I feel I owe it to him, in a reciprocal gesture, to at least ensure that he is comfortable. Especially since in all likelihood, that he just prevented me from losing my medical license, all respect and potentially (in a worst case scenario) half of my liver. He weighs an utter tonne when I eventually pick him up, and only manage to get as far as the sofa. Pillows and blankets are replaced for him. I leave some food out for the morning, seeing as the combination of REM and delta sleep usually means the beginnings of starvation if it occurs within an hour.

My debt is repaid. It is only done for reciprocation. At 4am I leave, after having taken a very brief shower, and gathering my things. I head for the hospital. It is the last place that anyone will look for me, and what's more is that I have an idea on the patient's treatment. Besides, should I need coffee, or sleep, there is the on call room, and the nurses station - and given I run a multi-billion yen company on neurological research, I am sure that they could allow me to stay at least one night, if not two.

The first thing I do is check the patient's condition. He remains stable. His pupils are capable of dilation and constriction upon subjection to light. Each muscle memory is still there, as I strike various points with the small knee hammer to observe the reaction.

I was right. The temporal lobe hasn't been destroyed. Just ripped, like a tendon. That was why the corpus callosum was a problem in the initial report.

The next 28 hours are a flurry of coffee, keystrokes, and an old operating system which makes me want to rip my hair out. I might have to acquire this hospital's system and force them to update, or patients might die based on the fact that it takes so long to research and write up a surgery proposal. I write in my usual handwriting, and type as quickly as I can muster. This could actually work. If the intracranial pressure was relieved, then some pluripotent stem cells could be replaced in between the tear - although they would be difficult to get hands on, if the nuclei out of the other surrounding cells were replicated and only grown for 48 hours, it just might be possible.

The proposal is submitted, and received well. I am invited to operate. The morning of that day, I return to Dick's room in scrubs (Good lord, its strange to have colour in them. In Japan, they are just plain white). A nurse has already shaved his head when I enter. Just some retinal tests to be performed, and his vitals to be checked, and then he can be taken in.

Unfortunately, there is another occupant in the room. Joy. Just my day.

~Jason POV~

Hoo- boy. I am so hugely mega metahumanly psyched. And not just psyche or psychoed or even psychologisted! (Got sucked off by this therapy Doctor chick, she was AWESOME, and she gave me a lolly after, best thing ever in the world) I'm off to see Dickie todaaaaaay~

Course, he's about as responsive and interesting to talk to as a plank o' incontinent droolin' wood, but hey, we all got used to that with BRUCIE. Ziiiiiiing. Anyway. At least he's still pretty. Cept, they're shavin' off his hair today, which in my humble opinion (LIES) is wrong, cos he'd prolly rather die than be bald as an egg. Heh. Egg. Robin's come from eggs, yanno.

ALSO!

Timbo is back. Yeah, Duckie! And doin' the surgery apparently, cept, Dami says he's a cold hearted hunk o' nothingness. Which I find hard to believe, because FUCK, could be any LESS animated than he was before? He was practically a friggin' robot as it was.

"My. Name. Is. Tim. I. Am. A. Robot. Exfooooooliate!" I mutter, doin' my best Dalek impression. Shuddup, ok. Old VHS of Doctor Who s'all we get in the common room at the madhouse. S'kinda a cool show, anyway. Woop, I'm at Dickie's door. The nice kind people in white coats let me pick some flowers on the way, which was fuckin' patronisin, but I used it as an excuse to pinch some ciggies from a tramp, so whatever. Win some, lose some.

I kick the door just ta send it slammin' and swoop on in to the poorest reception I've ever had "Mornin' Princess!"

Dickie doesn't say nothin', of course, not even when I give him a big, wet kiss, but in my head he goes in this high pitched voice 'why good morning my dear and lovely Jason, you're looking particularly handsome and sane today.'

"Why thank you, big bird! You're lookin' a tad bit on the hard boiled side, m'afraid." I grin, run a careful hand over the sheen "It's cool, babe, sportin' the Lex Luthor look is totally in."

I lean my maaaassive forearms on the blankets, take Sleepin' Beauty's hand, and draw little doodles on it. Hope it tickles "So listen, Damo's not comin' today, he's with Wilko. But it don't mean he don't love ya, ok? He's just gotta whoooooole load of stuff ta deal with. Includin' Duckie and his dumb little 'I'm a cold bastard' hissy fit. It's real cute. You'd laugh, Dickie-bird."

No he wouldn't. He'd cry. Huh, is that the door...? OhMyGodItTotallyIs-

"DUCKIIIIIIE!" I throw myself across the room, grab him round the waist and spiiiiiin than plant a massive wet one (wetter than Dickie's!) on his lips. Get my head practically spliced open with a clipboard for my trouble, but WORTH IT. Sides, I get smacked in the noggin all the time "Awesome duds! Kinda gay, but that's appropriate, considerin'. How the hell are you? Why is your hair the same? You shavin' yet? Still a virgin? Can I have a cupcake? I'm hungry, and that frigid bitch nurse won't help me."

He twitches but ignores me. Huh. Nobody ignores Jason Philip Peter Archibald Todd! (makin' shit up, I tell ye, makin' shit up, it's fun) "Oooooh right, you're pussy Ice Queen now. That's cool. Literally. But hey, just one tiiiiiiiiiiiiny little eensy weensy little problem with this whole 'I don't care now I'm going back to Animeland where panty machines are plentiful...' "

I smirk, grab his chin, bring him right up close to me "If you don't care, then why are you working so damn hard to save Dickie's life, huh?"

~Tim POV~

I was never under the illusion that Jason Todd was sane. That was evident from the first day that I met him. That, and he had agreed to wear the costume which was surprisingly suited to Grayson's figure, and didn't agree with Jason's at all. He is talking to the patient as though nothing has passed between them. My first meeting with him in ten years, and what do I get? A massive kiss, and unnecessary physical contact. Wonderful.

It feels ridiculous, but I flinch hard. Apparently one of the previous nights hit harder than I thought. I slam the clipboard across his head to ensure that he doesn't come any closer, taking several steps backwards. No, he never was sane. But this cartoon version of the Todd I used to know has.. .no bitterness to it. No underlying anger. And he is visiting the patient of his own free will? Well, i suppose, in one way, that speaks volumes.

The fact that he is here, visiting, and not attempting to reclaim the mantle for himself says enough as well.

He also mentions that Damian is visiting 'Wilko'. That will be a traditional abbreviation for something. I should run an algorithm later to check possible combinations, and run it in a database beside 'Damian Wayne' and see what I get. Maybe it would shed some light onto the person whom Damian has mysteriously vanished to see.

He assaults me with a barrage of questions. I attempt to ignore him as best I can. Vitals are normal. Pulse is slightly elevated. Pressure is a little on the high side, but that will be rectified after the procedure. Jason is abominably annoying. If I had ever had low blood pressure prior to meeting him, it would have skyrocketed just from the initial confrontation.

He invades my space once again. And I wince again. This is fucking ridiculous! I wish I could cut into my own brain so that I could rewire the brain pattern. I am not going to associate physical contact with molestation! For God's sake, pull yourself together! But then again, the rational side of my brain argues, this is Jason. Why would I not associate it with molestation? Breath. I back away again. But this time, I have schooled my expression back to blank. It is easier to deal with.

"Why should I inform you of anything?" I ask curtly, at the point that Damian finds his way into the room.

With a rather large and purpling bruise. I frown. What confrontation has he just experienced to get that kind of bruise? It's taken at least three layers of skin with it, and the whole cheekbone is inflamed. I assume that this will have been provoked. But then again, it seems my assumptions surrounding Damian are wrong due to not having enough information to fully evaluate. Maybe I should just keep the opinion of it being a confrontation in the back of my mind for the moment.

That is going to end up a scar if isn't treated.

"Sit down. " I instruct, and point him at a chair. There is an emergency patch kit next to the crash cart. I pull on the latex gloves, which are available in their standard box, grab antiseptic, local anaesthesia and a needle and thread just in case. There is gauze nearby as well.

I drop to his level when he is seated, and look at the bruise carefully. That is quite a considerable amount of damage for what seems to be only one punch. I wipe the excess blood off with a cotton pad, and then add the antiseptic to ensure that there is no infection. Then, retrieve arnica from one of the base trays of the crash cart, and spread an acceptable amount over his zygomatic bone, and dress it with gauze. A little medical tape, and it fixed in place. "Do not remove that for the next two hours or so. " I remove the gloves, and place them in the contaminated bin.

"The OR is ready when you are, " A nurse informs me from outside, and I nod. "Right. " I address no one in particular. Perhaps the room. " If there are no complications, the surgery will last 3-4 hours. If there are complications, you will be informed. " Ah, just like home.

~Jason POV~

Well, this is all just mega freakin' weird. Tim the Grim from Obgyn (GEDDIT) patches Damo up like it's the most natural thing in the whoooole world. And people call little ol' ME crazy. At least I'm consistently and utter nutter butter.

Baby bird shakes his head, face purple n' yellow all over, hair greasy and unwashed and sweaty and ewwww gonna dump him in a pond "I do not understand you." he says, to Timbo. I glance back n' forth between em, like a tennis match. Nothin'. Zilch. Nada.

Dami-chan heads on over to Dickie, n' I shoot a grin at Duckie and shadow him. He just STANDS there. I roll my eyes, grab his hand, n' stick it in Dick's. Sheesh. Gotta do everythin' round here.

"They're taking you into surgery now, Dick." Damo says, evenly, but I can see the shakes, the shakey shakes "Be strong. Stay alive."

That's...kinda dumb advice, little D. I prod him. He turns to Timbo. Pauses.

"I have absolute faith in your medical abilities." he starts, matchin' Duckie blank for blank "But that's not why I'm allowing this. I'm allowing this because I trust you. And I trust you because, once, you loved this man like a brother." awwww man, I think m'tearin up (LIES! ...again) "Be aware of that."

They take 'em away. Me n' baby Bird stand outside the glass, watch Tim stick his surgerified fingers in Dickie's head. Heh. Now, now, Jay-Jay, there's a time and place for vulgarity. Which is ALWAYS. What's weird, is when I look over at Damo, he's lookin' at Timmy. Not at Dick.

Huh.

~Damian POV~

Jason has to leave halfway through the procedure, at 12. He is none too happy about it. Scalpel wielding, straight-jacket inducing, unhappy. I give him a temporary cell, promise to keep him informed. Before he goes, he tells me something.

_'I asked him, Dami-cakes. I asked him why he's doin' it, an' he didn' KNOW.'_

I don't fidget. Just stand, practically pressed against the glass, perfectly still, and watch Drake's fingers. They're long, and precise, and delicate. His face is as stone. Do you care? Is Timothy Wayne still there? Surely, he must. Or he wouldn't be here. And I cannot believe I am taking JASON'S word on something.

Hours pass. I do not move. Most of my muscles become inactive and complain, and prickle. I ignore them. I rest my forehead against the glass and close my eyes, just for a second. Or so I think. When I open them, Drake is there. Dick's blood, tiny flecks, marr his scrubs. From the pinkness of his hands, he has washed them too many times. Too many, even for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I look expectantly at him. He only nods. The relief is so potent it makes my knees buckle. I look at him, paler than milk, silent, blank, dark hair precisely the way I remember it, and suddenly, I just do not care about anything but Dick, and Tim, and what he has done for Dick, and how could anything else MATTER.

I walk to him. Keep a purposeful, respectable distance according to Japanese custom, place a hand on either shoulder, lean in, and press my lips against his right cheek.

"Shukran." I murmur against his skin, which is warm, and unexpected, and what did I expect? But no, he is alive, human, him, and when I kiss the other cheek in Arabic custom, the curve of my lips twitch upwards just slightly into the hollow below his cheekbone, and my eyes may slip shut, inexplicably, lashes catching, inexplicably, but it doesn't matter, none of it does "Thank you."

I step abruptly 3 paces backwards, and fold my hands behind my back. I consider him for a further moment.

"I have decided, that you are still Timothy Wayne. And I have decided to bring you back." speaking the words aloud christens my conviction. I feel stronger. Despite the horror of this morning, I feel...better.

I heave a heavy breath, find myself looking at his shoes. This means, back to playing Satan. Back to trying to break him "Truce over."

I move to walk away.

~TBC~


	7. Chapter 7

~Prodigal Son, 7~

~Tim POV~

The surgery goes well. My final conclusion as to the patient s condition was true. It is easy enough to repair the corpus callosum manually. The stem cells are injected, and very small, electrochemical dispensers are dotted about his brain. They are inserted with infinite care, and will be there solely for the purpose of L-Dopa dispensing. But that will be the main route to recovery with any luck. I will have to monitor his progress for the next 24 hours personally I have not just risked my career to not follow up.

It is finished in four and a half hours. I find myself scrubbing my hands more than the usual 13 times. They are looking a little raw, but I keep on scrubbing. There isn t any dirt under my fingernails, nor any other specimen or mineral, but I keep going until the 27th time, when I am allowed to stop. Or at least, that was what seems acceptable. Damian has woken up from his nap. And it is easy to inform him that it was a success.

In fact, the patient s ability to remain well is remarkable. Only ten minutes after surgery and he was functioning at full capacity in terms of his metabolism and immune system. But it is something that I should have potentially expected. The patient was in peak physical health when he entered the surgery, for him to not survive and not make a full recovery would be improbable.

It is at that point that I notice that he is touching me. My hands are still damp, over the metallic basin where I have been washing them for the past twenty minutes, and I try very hard not to flinch when I find lips pressed to my cheeks. One, then the other. I am going to completely ignore the fact that I can feel my face heating. Damn, of all the things that I can control, this is not one of them. Stupid blood flow.

Then he is muttering some bullshit about bringing me back . I am standing right in front of him. What facet of life is he attempting to re-ignite? Is this just all a game? Is that what he means by truce ?

Damian. I ve aided Grayson in the recovery process. Now I have a request of you. I want the name of the person to whom Rory belongs to. He gives it to me angrily. I am 87% certain that he thinks I have manipulated him for that sole purpose. The name comes along with imminent death threats. Well, it is not as though I haven t had those before.

Colin Wilkes. Now that I can work with.

I type at the hospital computer, pulling up all the information that I can find on the name, and the relationship to Damian Wayne. Why would he be so protective of someone who does not share his name? What is the purpose of their relationship? Where did they meet, under what circumstance, and why? I m not even really sure why I want to know. It is a conundrum. Judging by how it has affected Damian emotionally, he must be exceedingly important, which would imply he has known Damian for a long time previously.

There are a few pictures of them together on the internet. Just spending time. Then I pull up the Phoenix file. So this Colin figure is in a care facility.

I call the receptionist, and ask to be put through to the head doctor. I inform him of who I am, give him my medical ID so that he can verify, and ask (politely) about this person. Apparently there had been a blue code that morning, where the patient in question had attacked a visitor. Ah. So that would be where the bruise had originated from.

The inquiry takes a while. We speak at length about his condition - given my company, such care facilities tend to want to be generous in information, as I could potentially offer funding. Should I do so, the first thing I am going to change is the exchange of information concerning vulnerable patients. What if I had been someone else? What if I had been lying?

There is mention of the venom that this child had injected in him when he was younger, and the molecular structure is sent directly to my PDA. I ask if the compound has fused with any of his erythrocytes. They answer in the negative. I refrain from shouting at the person down the phone. Is everyone over here a complete and utter fool?

I arrange for a colleague to go and visit Colin, someone who is in the near vicinity, and is a neurologist. The head of the facility agrees, on the condition that his credentials check out. I then phone Dr. Khan to inform him of what I want done. He agrees pretty immediately. Settled. The recovery will not be easy, nor inexpensive, but at least the regression can be stopped. The last person I telephone is a psychiatrist I had known as a child. Now a colleague. Oh the ironic circles we twist in. I request he helps me out in this particular facility. He agrees.

I am satisfied with this outcome.

~Damian POV~

This really is quite disappointing.

I had not wanted to fail, of course. But I had half expected to. World s greatest detective , my...apparently very square and aesthetically pleasing, rear. I think I shall choose not to dwell upon that. This has all been disturbingly simple. And now, here I stand. A masked intruder, looming over the room s oblivious occupant.  
The blankness, the emptiness, is evidently maintained. Looking at him now, asleep...he appears just as he always was. Frowning slightly. The page of a book stuck to his cheek. I repress the urge to snort. The cowl does not quite fit. The shoulders are just a little too broad, the head not perfectly moulding to my features. I am a distortion, a corruption, after all. But it shall do. Dick s would have been too small. And besides, it is not Dick s ghost I am necromancing, tonight.

I take the small, computerised USB device, and tuck into the most reinforced, protected pocket of the Bat Belt. (Ugh, Father. Really. Some creativity would be appreciated.) Smile, and consider using my free time to purchase a new laptop. And fight crime. Obviously. Dick was right. This cape is utterly infuriating. I leave a small, typed note in place of the item:

Timothy Jackson Wayne.  
If you wish to recover your stolen property, proceed to the place where it all began.  
Batman.

I use a batarang to pin it to the desk, for good measure. It will be a long, black night.

~Tim POV~

I must be hallucinating. I could have been utterly positive that someone was standing above me. Perhaps it was just a dream. I slept heavily for once, given the sheer amount of hours that I have wracked up in this hospital. They have very kindly designated me an on-call room completely to myself, and given me the key. It is a very unusual thing to do, but for once, I don't question it.

I reach over to the small device which has been my lifeline, only to find something sharp and pointy cut my finger open. I stick it in my mouth out of habit. This forces me to sit upright. Why would anyone bother to steal a civilian PDA? It doesn't make sense! I turn the light on, and feel the floor drop out from underneath me, as I realise just which object has been placed on the desk (more embedded in it). A batarang. With a note attached. I thought that I had maanged to escape this insanity? It appears I was wrong.

I note that my full name has been used, but Wayne has replaced Drake. Of course. This is Damian's 'Truce over. '. He stole the only other piece of technology I rely on. I don't know what it is that rises in my throat, bile, or anger. I guess that I have absolutely no choice but to follow. To the place where it all began. I know exactly where it will lead me. I pull on a jacket, retrieve both batarang and note, and set out into the night.

It takes ten minutes to run to crime alley. I am not going to waste any time. I slow my walk as I enter. Even now, this place makes me shiver. My eyes dart around in the waning light, attempting to see out any potential threats without even particularly realising it. I take a breath. Then another. And step into the darkest part. Fist clenches, then unclenches.

What is it that I am looking for?

~Damian POV~

Crime Alley is a tomb. More of a tomb than the graves in Wayne Graveyard. A moment frozen in time. The boarded-up theatre. The penetrating cold. The sightless, lidless eyes of the dark streetlamps.

I place the wreath where my Father always placed it, or so Dick showed me. Upon the third step, beside the back door to the theatre. Black roses, black leaves. Not synthetic. Although I must hurry, I take a moment to reflect. What would they think, they wonder? Those champions of this tragedy?

I nestly the small, framed portrait in amongst the leaves, the note tucked in the back of the portrait, between glass and wood. Then, I am gone. I am the Night, after all.

'Here, a young boy lost his family in a single moment. So much so, that he was prepared to jeapardise his new family in the name of his crusade. Riddle me this: what does family mean to you? And what will you jeopardise? And what will you jeopardise it for?'

Then, a clue.A shred of brightly painted paper, printed with a distinctive H, and smelling strongly of popcorn.

~Tim POV~

There's the theatre that started this whole charade. I carefully make my way towards it, attempting to eliminate any sort of footstep that I could make, just in case there is someone else out there. My breathing quickens, as does my heartrate. The wreath is there, just as it is every year, on the same day. My throat tightens. Chest constricts painfully. Bruce. It has been so long since Bruce had been the one to lay a wreath. Grayson can no longer do it. I kneel on the steps, and look at the picture that is placed there.

Bruce looks so happy. Before all of this happened to him. When he was just a normal child with a normal family. I wonder if there is stll a trace of blood from the original Waynes on these steps. Was the image of their deaths burnished into Bruce's memory in the same way so many people's have been in mine?

I turn the portrait over. The note makes me inhale sharply. What does family mean? Surely it is an illusion of years past. Of a time when things were comfortable. Before I was replaced. I haven't had a family in a long time. Nor friends. Why would I jeopardise anything for something that doesn't exist? My brain helpfully supplies the image of Jason's greeting. Of.. my patient's face. And Damian.

I know them. They know me. That does not mean that we are family.

Does it?

The paper I find as a clue is the same as the ticket I still own from over 15 years ago. It is still at the bottom of a chest in my wadrobe, in a glass case, along with a few pictures from that night. Simletaneously the most horrible and most wonderful night to experience. The tragedy was mind numbingly terrible; even from an objective perspective, I can see that. But I remember those sensations as a child. Feeling as though I belonged amongst the Flying Graysons.

The circus.

I pocket the paper, and the picture, and set off again at a run.

~Tim POV~

This particular place holds no demons for me. It is not even a Taboo. Dick is not like my Father. He grieves for his parents openly. Keeps that poster, their smiling faces, watching over him while he sleeps. Celebrates their lives, rather than their deaths. What he brought them, rather than what they couldn't bring him.

The sand is an issue. It shall reveal my footsteps, and the drag of my cape. But that cannot be helped. I walk somewhat gingerly to the centre of the circus ring, as a ringmaster. I shall bury it, I think. I embed the simple photo, well, printed copy, in the sand, the forensics photo, patched with age. I write a few simple words on the back.

'Come fly with me.'

I cheat. I admit it. I use the cable, rather than climb the rungs. In my defence, it appears rather...rickety. Finally, I scramble up onto the (stable, at least) platform, and tack (again, a copy) of the poster that sits beside Dick's bed, to the pole. And another note.

'The Flying Grayson's were never afraid to trust in themselves, and eachother, to take the leap of faith. Dick Grayson fell, but he climbed, and jumped, and flew again. Riddle me this: are you afraid to rise from your fall? Will you to take the leap, and move forward, or will you turn back?'

The next clue lies on the opposite platform, a good, long swing away. I take it without a moment's hesitation.

'A quadruple sommersault? Surely not.'

~Damian POV~

This one was really damn fucking awkward, as Drake's previous flat had been occupied by a new family in the intervening years. The merest hint of green dollars, however, and they readily agree to vacate for an evening. I give them tickets to a local concert, the sort they could never afford. Another citizen placated. Good. I guess.

Luckily, the dark room had been locked up, apparently too cold, and useless, and 'creepy'. Fortunate. Tacks and pins are still embedded in the wall. It is a simple matter to spread the splay of photographs (and even I, I must admit, am a little perturbed by the sheer volume...stalker, much, Drake? Obsessive, even then) on the floor. I set the small, faded, slightly chipped Robin mask in the centre of the mess. A trophy. Hard won, from the spoils of the cave. A goal.

' In this room, a young boy unravelled a mystery that baffled the world. He fought, and bled, and sacrificed for the right to use his tenacity, his intelligence, and his strength to become a force for good. He fought because he believed in something. Riddle me this: what did he believe in? Why did he fight? What do you believe in? And what are you fighting for?

A little wordy, but sometimes, there is much that should be said. Finally, a place somewhat of a morbid clue beside the photos.

'Wrong place of residence. Go forward to the current address.'

~TBC~


	8. Chapter 8

~Prodigal Son, 8~

~Tim POV~

The dark room is still as silent and peaceful as it ever was. I unlock the door quickly, and am horrified to find many of my photos posted up on the walls and the boards that I used. There are pictures of everything. The first time I caught one of Dick's somersaults on film. The first time I caught Batman and Robin out together ( I had snuck out, and was on a rooftop, at about 3am, without having told my parents where I was. I remember the being grounded being worth it).

It still smells of developers fluid, even now. And I am not surprised. I spent thousands of my saved pounds on it, and hundreds of gallons of the stuff. There are still a few abandoned bottles lying around on the floor. I guess this space hasn't been used since I was last there. The note is next to the mask.

I remember just how hard I had to reason with Bruce to even get a chance at being Robin. To prove how useful I was. It is intertwined with the memory of being replaced, and the feelings that it sparked. That was when I truly stopped feeling things. Put everything aside for the sake of getting the job done.

When I was young, everything was hopes, and dreams. Idealism. Wanting to be so badly like the person I idolised. Wanting to aid a city that I loved like a person. Protecting Batman's psyche, which was almost as fragile as I was at 12, because of his recent loss. And now? It is not belief, or about fighting. It is about existence. Perseverance. Because I have long since lost any notion of a future beyond the next day. Why do I even bother keeping on like this? My company could run itself, I made sure of that when I created it.

I imagine Dick, resting on a bed, hair shaven, and looking peaceful. I wonder what he is dreaming of.

I feel sick at the next note. I force myself to keep standing, but lean heavily on the table that is closest. A shuddering breath is all I can allow. I can't go back to that place. I can't. Back to where Mom and Dad's corpses are going to be rotting in the ground. Marked, but uncared for. Because of me. The guilt whips my face harder than the wind I am flinging myself into.

I am going to finish this. After running away like a coward, for so many years. I at least owe it to them, to pay them some form of respect. Just this once.

~Damian POV~

This was the easiest to set up, for myself. And it will no doubt be one of the hardest to endure, for him. I try not to think about it. This time, there will only be a note. And two bunches of flowers, from myself. As a personal gesture.

'You will take something away from this place. But you will also leave something here. The greatest challenge to a parent, is to let go. And the greatest wish of the dead, is to be let go. Riddle me this: let go. Leave, and do not carry them on your shoulders, but rather, let them follow.'

The clue, set a little further away but in plain sight, is also simple: a note, with a penny attached.

'How much does This Cost?'

~Tim POV~

There they are. The two headstones that haunt my nightmares. The image of my father choking blood up from a stab wound. My mom poisoned without even my being there. I grind to a halt. There are two bunches of flowers adjacent.

I brush my fingers over the top of the dusty, uncared for graves. "Here Lies Janet Drake. " Then "Here Lies Jack Drake". It is easiest to be seated on my knees. I'm shaking. Every breath shudders with me. Its just the cold.

How can I be expected to let go? How can I even forgive leaving someone's memory so uncared for for such a long period of time? I never even lit an incense stick at the local shrine for them. Never put up any pictures. Never wanted to remember. Its just weakness. Pure weakness.

It is still difficult to believe that they are completely gone. Most likely decomposed flesh mingled with wood. It is enough to bring bile searing through my throat for the umpteenth time tonight. Emotion floods through my veins, thick as blood, for the first time in a decade. It courses, and chokes. I can feel my face contorting - my jaw clenched, eyes screwed up. My hands fist in the grass that still grows as green as the day I buried them.

Children are not supposed to watch their parents die when they are just children.

How can I apologise when all that's left of them are two hunks of stone? Is that all that they were worth in this world? Damn it. **"Damn it!"** There's hysteria lining the edge of my voice.

Pathetic. How long has it been since I last cried?

I'm not sure of how long I sit there. Time becomes irrelevant. I have failed all four of the parents I have had. Bruce. Alfred. Janet and Jack Drake. Now just names cast in stone. And all I have to show for my life is a bunch of photos that I am not included in, and a group of people, who by all right should hate me.

How can anyone let any of that go?

How did Dick, Jason and Damian become better people than me by far, even though they lost more?

When did I become so inherently weak?

"I'm ... I'm sorry I haven't visited." I'm not even sure its my voice talking anymore. "And I'm sorry for how I behaved in life. I'm glad you can't see what I became after. "

Silence reigns for what seems like eternity.

"I wish I believed in an afterlife, but I don't. I- " my voice falters. "Can only hope, wherever you are now, if you are conscious, if you can still think, that you feel safe. That.. that it is peaceful. Like a home. "

I feel as though I have said too much. I arrange the flowers neatly on both graves, and stand, my hands now dirty, fingers somewhat shredded, and trousers covered in mud.

How much is a penny worth?

I turn my back for the last time. I am most probably not ever going to come back here again.

~Damian POV~

This is going to be difficult. Very. Because this particular...well. I do not want to sit here and rationalise it. But it is quite evident that I am still grieving for Alfred. I try to take Dick's example; would like to embrace the misery, the loss, the memories...but...how can I, right now? When there is so much I must do.

It actually takes me several tries. The tea must be precisely right. I have installed a small, thermal heating mat beneath the cup, to keep it warm. I had to consult Jason, of all people, to ascertain how Drake used to take his tea. Honeyed, with a dash of lemon, apparently. There is no accounting for taste.

'I propose a toast: to Alfred Pennyworth, Father, and friend. And now, riddle me this: did you really come back, just to say goodbye?'

I toast empty air with my own cup, and take a minute to sip, quietly. My own is green tea, with mint. I hope the smell will not overpower that of Drake's. I leave the next clue next to my cup: another note.

'Quit being such a Richard, Tim.'

~Tim POV~

The manor is deathly silent when I arrive. The one person who gave it warmth and light is now six feet under, and there is nothing left of him, except memories, and worn overcoats. There is a single cup of tea waiting. It smells.. as though made precisely the way I used to take it. I stopped drinking tea in Tokyo, because it was too nostalgic.

I raise my cup, to the memory of a man like no other, and drain it gratefully. The next clue is to stop being like Dick... what is there that I have ever been like Dick in? Robin? Batman's sidekick? There is no optimism in me, nor do I have ridiculous long hair, or an attitude that can save from anything.

I was a Titan, once, same as Dick, but the Tower is a long distance away, and I get the feeling that I should be remaining in Gotham.

Where else did we have in common? I've already been to the circus, and the manor.

Then it hits me. My utter stupidity. The message is clear. Back to Dick.

I catch my reflection in one of the portraits as I leave the manor as quietly as I came. I look pale and drawn. There is red slightly rimming the sides of my eyes. My lips are pulled into a grimace. I look close to a zombie.

Well, not time to dwell. I set off at a jog this time, not wasting energy, but simultaneously having been invigorated by the tea. It takes twenty minutes to get back to the hospital. I feel very dishevelled when I finally enter Dick's room. The heart monitor is still beating smoothly. His pressure isn't raised. I am glad for that, at the very least, out of all the things that have occurred tonight.

~Damian POV~

I am sorely tempted to rest here, myself, in the sanctuary of warmth, and Dick, and everything that he is. It feels really, really, really fucking weird, standing over him dressed in the cowl. But I push that sensation aside. Feel my features crack, slowly, into a genuine smile.

His cheeks are healthily pink. His breathing even, but not too even. Not mechanised. Slightly erratic and dreamy, like him. Jason has bought him a ridiculous, crystal blue, woolly hat from the hospital store, to hide the baldness. It looks somewhat like a tea cosy. I can almost hear Dick's horrified laughter.

Drake did this. That means something. Surely.

This may take him awhile. But I think it shall be worth it. It is not an overly large stack of papers, but it is messy, lines inked through, doodles, fretful ink blots. About 12 different drafts, crumpled, smooth, short, essay-length. The painstaking, heartfelt process of constructing the perfect message. The unsaid. The unposed questions, the declarations, discarded, considered too hostile. This is the embodiment of Dick. His regrets. His hopes. His love.

Beside them, a simple note. The riddle, and the clue, side by side. A small, green, plastic dinosaur weighs it down.

'Riddle me this: are you really alone? Or do you choose to be?'

~Tim POV~

Dick looks ridiculous in his little hat. It looks like someone has attempted to put something woollen on an egg. But he is breathing normally, and his temperature is within the range I want it to be. I know that I should be following the next clue, but I take a few minutes to ensure that Dick is ok. I check his vitals. I check his reflexes. And then, I gently pull the blanket up, and tuck him in a little. He used to do it to me. It is only fair that now I take care of him.

The notes... are so many words on a page. I sit, to sift through a few of them. Lines are crossed out messily. There are a few thumbprints of ink on the sides of the pages, a couple of smears. _Missing you, little brother_ jumps out from the page. Like a claw, ripping at my gut. All the things that I didn't allow Dick to say, out of what? Obstinacy? Fear? Pain?

_There's a room set aside in the tower, with lots of your old things -_. My teeth grit, and I quickly put that one down underneath the rest.

_I just sit and wonder. It's been so long - _Dick's voice rings clearly in my head, like it were yesterday that we last spoke. Him acknowledging that Damian needs to be looked after. And me hearing what I wanted to hear, as opposed to what he was saying.

_- can't stop joking sometimes-_

_Just let me know you're safe. _The pages rattle between my fingers as I resist the urge to scrunch them up. Instead I fold them neatly into quarters, and tuck them in my pockets. I will read the rest later, when I don't feel like some twenty stone elephant is trampling all over my chest.

I know I choose to be alone, but is it really the right choice? Am I being selfish to not take everyone else into consideration?

"Sleep well, Dick." I mutter, and pause, eventually pressing a kiss to his temple.

Plastic Dinosaur. The cave. This time I walk, taking in the night air. Breathing it sweetly, trying to process what my mind has been overloaded with. It has not really left me with the capacity to think.

~Damian POV~

I am not really sure why I chose the cave for this one. I suppose I concluded, that this space simply too great a volume of thoughts and feelings and memories, and so it merely became the stage for a rather...well, it is more of a sentiment, than a memory.

This item was possibly the most difficult to get hold of. I had to search the entirety of Drake's old room, in the mansion, and then his many flats and safehouses also. Without disturbing anything particularly, either. But I found it, eventually. Wrapped in what seemed to be an old Superboy shirt in the back of a wardrobe.

A dusty, smeared, plastic container with 3 compartments. Their emptiness speak a thousand words.

'Riddle me this: have you really lost everything? Or are you just afraid to lose more?'

And, what is essentially, the final clue: a number. The access code to Wayne Tower.

~Tim POV~

As if I haven't already had enough shock to lead to a myocardial infarction tonight, the sample tubes make me miss a beat. I don't approach them. I daren't. I remember just how compelled I had been to fill those vials. To study what would be contained in them. The Lazarus pit. To bring back Conner. Steph. Dad.. The vials that could have changed the course of this whole ridiculous life that I have been living.

I remember being so desperate to hold onto something that I would have gone to any lengths. Sold my soul to the devil. Given up my life, to give them life instead. Is that why I don't attach to anything now? Its a rational explanation. It makes logical sense. The train of thought leads to now - what left have I got to lose?

It makes me berate myself. I'm not going to let Dick die. Jason is... around, I guess, is the only way of putting it. Conner is still alive. And .. Damian..

The tower code. This is it. The final, ending pathway. Wayne Tower.

I walk slowly. Fear creeps up my spine, its icy fingers swinging around my central nervous system, causing me to shiver. I think at some point, walking around in Gotham in nothing but a badly insulated jacket has got to me. Why am I afraid to go back to Wayne tower? Dick is in hospital! Damian is.. off being Gotham's protector, and leading me in a merry dance. Jason'll probably be snorting something here or there, or trying to get it on with a woman.

I punch in the code with hesitant fingers. The apprehension is making my muscles seize up. I know its psychosomatic, but I can't help it.

The descension into the basement lasts forever. I want to pull my expression to a neutral blank, but I can't. My lips are pressed thin. Eyes slightly narrowed against the gloom. Hands quivering, itching to do something, hold onto something, but nothing is within grasp.

~Damian POV~

He is probably expecting another reprimand, but this will not be what he thinks it is. This stage is different. This...well, stage, I suppose...is not so much about him as it is about me.

I have never been good at folding clothes. The small, red and green pile of leather is neat at best, haphazard at worst. I rest the mask on top of pile and press it, gently, into that emblazoned R. In truth, it had been time for me to relinquish Robin anyway. And I am not...implying that he become...I...

There are some things I can never take back.

It is incredibly telling, that the only item I could possibly think of, is this. My costume. My pretender to the throne. My corruption, because, that is what I do. What I did. Infiltrated. Corrupted. Usurped.

The note is...well. Dick has too many words. I have too few. And so, in the end, I had simply said what I had wanted to say.

'I took something from you. But it was not this. Not this costume. Not this role. I see that now. I did not understand what I had taken, until I took it. And grew to know it. Grew to treasure it. And that is why, I seek to return it to you now. To show you, that you have a place here. That you always did. And you always will.

I was wrong.

I am sorry.'

I try not to think too hard on the fact, that my former self would have rather strangled himself with batwire than indulge in such ridiculous sappy nonsense. Perhaps I am a little desperate. And a little pathetic. I hesitate, then leave taped to the computer, looking like an afterthought, because that is what it was: 'I am on the roof.'

~TBC~


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: The watch that Tim got Bruce for Father s day was a canon oneshot; Tim actually broke it fighting crime on the way home, but Bruce loved it anyway.

~Prodigal Son, 9~

~Tim POV~

The costume is sitting there, strangely folded, with a note beside it. I pick up the mask delicately, turn it over. The solvent marks are still there- slight globules of what we couldn't remove. I run a thumb over it. It feels worn. Who would have thought that Robin could feel worn, and old, even if to the outside world it looks brand new?

I place the mask down in favour of pulling the costume up. Almost unchanged since the last time I wore it. There have been some minor, visible adjustments. A couple of seams here and there, clearly repaired. A few rips sorted, expertly, and most probably, by Alfred. The R logo stares at me with unforgiving colour. Red. So many things it can symbolise, whether it is personal memories, or just sensations and feelings that a colour can invoke.

I take some time to fold the clothes as neatly as I possibly can. It looks obsessive, but I don't care. They are placed in line to the surface's corner. The mask is returned on top, positioned exactly in the place where it was a few seconds ago

The note stares at me. Gleaming white paper in the darkness. The writing is hand-written. It is scrawly, in a way that I always imagined Damian Wayne's handwriting to be. I look at it but am not able to take it in. It takes four tries to actually read what is written on the page. My eyes blur a little. I don't know if it s from being sore, or just from general fatigue.

It is a real apology. Not just something that Damian has made up, for his own purposes. Clearly, any assumption I had made about Damian still being a child, was wrong.

Why would he go to such lengths to apologise? To make such an effort to get me to stay? Am I really the only thing he has left, the last resort? I think about this for a moment. Jason is insane, and will be less help, and need more care than the average person. Dick is in a coma. Alfred's dead. Bruce is Dead. Talia al Ghul disowned him (I heard about it) and I think is presently MIA.

And then there's me.

I almost feel sympathy for him. Tim Drake as a last resort? It s an unfortunate last resort to have. I finger the corner of the note absently, until another one catches my eye. Apparently he is on the roof.

My feet carry me to the elevator. I stand in it, and watch as Gotham falls far below me, the glass giving a view of the whole city. I am still thumbing the corner of the note. I fold it, and press it into a pocket, along with all the other things residing in them tonight.

The elevator pings. I walk the remaining stairs up to the roof, the door swinging open with a deafening creak as I move through.

~Damian POV~

I am not ready for this.

It is not what I expected to think, when I finally donned this costume. At first, at the very first, I had expected it would be at the climax of some triumphant defeat, holding the severed head of the previous Batman aloft. Recently, I had hoped it would be an informal affair. Dick reverently handing me the costume. Telling me...that he is proud of me. That I have earned it.

Not like this. I did not want this. It is heavy and cumbersome and ill-fitting. Just standing in it, makes me feel nauseous. Although, that may be the sixty stories of empty air between myself and the ground.

The irony of it is, that I have been standing up here for over an hour, cloak billowing, cowl down, waiting for inspiration to strike. For a revelation. But so far...my only revelation has been that I have, quite simply, run out of words. Perhaps, in the morning, I shall feel differently. But here, now? I feel truly empty. I have given everything I had spare. And in...what may be...an entirely fruitless venture.

I wonder if I have any pride, any dignity, left to feel indignation, when Drake inevitably gives me that cold, dispassionate looks, and goes, and does not return.

A creak of a door. I wait, until I can feel that he is behind me. My numb fingers tighten around the small box I hold in my right hand.

"This..." my voice cracks from misuse, and I clear my throat "This is actually a loose end. I had meant to use it to..." I trail off, feel shamed, feel dirty, over what I have resorted to tonight "but it felt wrong, to use it."

I do not look. I cannot. I hold it out, behind me, in his vague direction. After an eternity, he takes it. I heave a breath, and sit, legs dangling over the edge of the tower, and watch the Sun rise. Let my eyes slip shut. I am so very tired.

No more words.

~Tim POV~

The Tower top is empty aside from that lone figure seated at its edge. I almost daren t move towards it for fear of what weapons I might have used against me. But as resignation rolls through his voice, I realise that Damian is probably just as tired as I am. Any shreds of composure and dignity I had left have fluttered away with the wind as a box is held out nonchalantly.

I approach warily, and take it. Open it with fingers that are unable to remain still. Inside gleams a watch face, fixed, like the day I bought it. I turn it over to reveal the message still engraved inside. Bruce had been shocked, but happy when I gave him this. He didn t think that his sons would ever do something like it. It was a nice reaction to see. But that, as with everything tonight, is just another painful memory that I have forgone to keep on walking.

Damian speaks. I listen. He looks unsteady perched on the edge of the Tower, as though a gentle breeze could sway him between falling, and remaining up. Tiredness crushes his shoulders downwards. It is exceedingly strange that he does, in fact, pretty much fit the cowl. I suppose in some abstract way, that means he owns it now.

The mission he started out with is complete. He became Batman. I approach carefully, and sit on the side of the building about two feet away. Judging by his expression, I would assume this wasn t the way that he wanted to. What with Dick in a coma, not able to see it. I suppose we re all still children looking for a Father s approval, when that father only occasionally existed in our mentor, and instead existed mainly in the man who has just been buried by his sons.

The usual thoughts spin my head around, so I halt them. I am too tired to deal with any of the things I have to think about. Each note asking a question too difficult to answer.

There is silence flowing with the wind, encasing us both. For once, it doesn t seem uncomfortable, or scrutinizing. Instead, I let it fall, carefully considering what it is that I should be saying. Thank you? Should I be angry for all the pain he has just caused? What would seem appropriate? I feel like a fish, floundering for lost words.

When I do speak, it has nothing to do with the things that have passed, and are passing between us.

Your friend... I finally come out with, swallowing to hydrate my throat. Colin Wilkes. There is a treatment for his condition. It will stop the regression, and his pain from growing. Stop the expansion from happening at all. It sounds pathetic, to my ears. I always find it ironic just how much can be read between the lines of something entirely unrelated to a situation. In that alone, it is clear to me that I do not know how to approach this scenario any better than he does. With your permission, I could try. Are those words only talking about Colin? His recuperation and regaining of motor function would be down to your help with physiotherapy. And I would be required to stay to monitor it.

~Damian POV~

Father's Day is soon, now I come to think of it. I shall have to remember to buy something for Dick. On top of the myriad of social imperatives and duties and idiot-fielding. Perhaps I should invest in a cattle prod, for the press. And possibly Jason. No, I do not mean that. Perhaps a brightly coloured, bouncy ball, or a yo-yo, instead. The drugs make him hyperactive.

...I am mentally procrastinating.

I will not ask Drake now, if he has drawn any conclusions, or experienced any revelations, tonight. I shall undoubtedly have to surmise that from his disposition. He does seem...less stable than he was. That is a good sign, I suppose. If it has affected him, he must have at least a modicum of physical reaction. I...shall ask Batwoman to scout each location, to see if anything has been left behind. That will provide some insight.

I think, that I may have literally strained my brain with all this plotting. I yearn for Markt- Alfred. Perhaps Alfie, instead? Yes. I yearn for her, in my lap, streamlining my thoughts with her rhythms.

Colin...? How does he-? Oh. Yes. I had forgotten. A...a cure? But why would he- but does it matter? Could he really- he cured Dick, Dick is, well- better- but WHY? Stay. He said...stay. But only...why?

"I do not understand." I shake my head, and more dark partitions of my hair fall forward, escaping the gel (non-excessive amount, I do not want to look like my Father...or a grease monkey...yet, at least) "Why would you do that?"

Especially if you don't care. I leave it unsaid. And then, a thought strikes me. I remember, following Dick's surgery. The manipulation. I have done this for you. Now do this for me. Is...is Drake only...interested in aiding us at all, for the sake of medical research? Is that what Dick's operation was to him? A way to gain access, by association, to an interesting medical case study? Colin Wilkes is infamous in psychiatric circles.

I had allowed myself to hope. That is, possibly, why this idea festers and twists like a knife in my gut.

"And what will you be demanding in return for your services this time?" I say, attempt to smooth the anger, the hurt, from my tone, and being only partially successful "A lobotomy, perhaps?"

~Tim POV~

For whatever reason, I find that sincerely painful. I know it shouldn t. I suppose when Damian ripped open the box where I had shoved every single emotion, I should have known that it would be easier to feel things that I didn t particularly want to feel. The numbness that I have been experiencing for such a long period of time is comforting, and to be honest, I want it back.

I guess I shouldn t really be surprised. It would be utterly logical for Damian to be cautious. Because apparently, according to my actions, the only conclusion is that this whole game is about manipulation. Ironic really, when it was me who was manipulated to playing the game in the first place. I can feel my hand clenching. Fuck. I ve lost every single barrier, and control mechanism in the space of an evening. I need to go somewhere. Somewhere quiet, regroup.

Somewhere where Damian won t know; won t be able to predict. Where I can be alone. My voice holds little jaw clenches, and anger mixed with hurt. I m ashamed of it even being present. I was just attempting to reciprocate previous kindness, as the owner of Rory meant something to you. My apologies. Although it is blurred, I do remember snippets of a couple of evenings ago. And that comment had stuck firmly in my mind. I had not forgotten.

I stand, and make my way back to the door that leads to the roof. The contact details regarding the relevant people are on the PDA, as is the draft proposal. It is your choice what you do with it. My throat is closing at random intervals due to utter rage, and pain. Regroup, Timothy. Find somewhere where you re hiding in plain sight. I take the elevator down to the floor, and start walking away from the tower, without even looking back. Blood is seeping from between my fingernails and my palms I am clenching them so hard. I am dirty, tired, fed up, and wish for clean sheets, but if I am going to evade Damian, then there is no way that that is going to change in the next 14 hours or so.

The walk dissolves into a jog. And the jog metamorphoses into a flat out run. I m running as fast as I can through Gotham with no technology, and no clothes to my name, and the only form of identification being my wallet. I m sorry Dick, I am going to have to visit you later.

I get past the hospital, and keep running. The wind tears at my skin, and jacket whips around me. I am going to fast, and can t keep my breath, but I do not care. My lungs burn, and I keep running. I reach Gotham s periphery after an hour. My pace has slowed to a fast jog. Beyond the border is just miles of open road. I keep jogging. I m sweating now, and shaking. I don t feel like eating. In fact, I mostly want to vomit at present.

I am about five miles out of Gotham (or so the sign says) when I finally come to a stop. My feet are aching, hypoglycaemia creeping on like a demon behind my back. It is utterly deserted around here, save for a bit of foliage. I eventually come to rest behind a particularly tall growing bush, which hides me from the road. I sit heavily on the earth. My breathing is raw, and quick. My brain is telling me desperately to wash my hands, my arms, everything, but I cannot.

Exhaustion overtakes me. I am out in the open, in the middle of the night, without any form of contact, and a wallet on me but no money. The absurdity of it all makes me laugh. The laughter dissolves into hot, almost painful tear tracks. Fine. I am allowed my pathetic hissy fit. Then in the morning, I will regroup, go back (hitch a ride, or something) shower, get dressed, and go back to the duties that I have been neglecting.

~Jason POV~

It's rainin' out. Pitter patter splatter, cats and dogs go down, meow! And woof, I guess, but that's kinda sexual and weird. Heh, wetness and woof. I wanna go out, splash about, get soaked. Or jump off somethin', JUST so I can die yellin' 'IT'S RAININ' MEN!' ...kersplatt.

Least it's all warm n cosy n bright in here. Got my new Spiderman ultimate super special awesome emo edition 3 bedspread too, which is pretty. Just pretty. Not pretty anything. Not cool, it keeps me toasty. Sometimes I think, I enjoy bein' mad, dunni? S'fun. Everyone's nice to you. State pays for your food n' your shittin' facilities. What better?

Bein' able to go out, for one thing. Ooop! There's the door! I got me a visitor.

"Yo, Dami-cakes!" I greet, n' wrinkle my nose a bit cos he STINKS like patrol "You look like leaky shit."

He doesn't say nothin'. Just wordlessly shows me the scrabble set he brought. AWESOME! Dickie started off the whole board games scrabble thing. Back when I was still reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally nutty, cos ya ain't gotta say nothin' with scrabble, but the right words come out anyway.

I'd rather play Mousetrap, but meh. I used to like Monopoly before baby bats turned out to be craaaaaazy (like, hipster kid, crazeeee, not OH MY GOD I HATE LEMURS EVISCERATE THEM crazy) good at it.

"And what offerin' do ya bring me, the omnipotent Lord of the Cowlicks, today, mortal?" I ask, an' he holds up a packet o' Haribos and some ciggies. FUCK YES.

So. We play. An' the words go summat like this:

LOTC (Lord of the Cowlicks): whattup

He twitches "That's not a word, Jason."

And? He rolls his eyes.

SOTB (Son o' teh Bat): prodigalson

I poke him in the pointy square nose "That's TWO words, genius."

He raises his eyebrows. And? Touche.

LOTC: hunt

SOTB: indecisive

Aaaaaaaaaaaand so it goes on. I feel it aaall out. He's sad bout Timmy n' Wilko n' Dickie n' Alfie n' the fact he hasn't had a chance to wash in like, forever. He lets me win the ACTUAL game which is pretty awesome. I cock my head to the side real far, so far it hits the floor, and think through a mouthful of coca cola candy.

"Lemme do somethin' bout Timmy-babes, kay?"

He looks like a bunny in a streetlight- uh- possum in a flashlight? Nah, deer...in a headlight! Yeah. I'm sane. Honest.

"Relax, Dee-Dee." I grin, reach for the ciggies "I know what I'm doin'."

Soooooo I break out that night, quiet like, it's easy enough. Head out to the local technology lab, the ones where Dickie get's all his new computers n shit from, grab me the biggest baddest piece of shit I can see. 'Revolution' model, they call it, bleh. I call it 'hunk of wires and blobs of melted metal number 10000405986405698'. Still. Looks neat. And Jap made, which Timmy will luuuurve.

Then, I head to the local hardware store, the type immigrants run, yknow, with all the knockoff plastic crap they've jacked off trucks. Heh, jacked off. Ahem. Ask for one o' those plastic protector covers, give dimensions. Pick the pattern. They give me a weeeeird look so I show em the knives I keep in my pants. 'Cept Jay Junior. PLEASE. I'm a classy broad, me.

Oh man, s'perfect! The lil' ducks in their rows even have the little mask on, and the RR, and the lil' red bib, man. This is SO COOL. Heh, I was gonna write some maaaassive note ta go with it but I think I'll just stick it on his desk. At the hospital. I rig the screensaver, though:

'Hey Timmy-babes! Why are Doctors called Quacks? Cos after ya see them they show you a BILL. HA! Drop by for scrabble when ya in my neighbourhood. Toodles!'

~TBC~

Thanks so much to all those who continue to review! :D I adore feedback! It motivates me ;)


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Ten chapters in, and they're only just beginning to FLIRT. I feel like some kind of failure...

~Prodigal Son, 10~

~Tim POV~

The morning light wakes me. My body tells me, from just how hard it is to get up, that I was probably in a cycle of delta sleep. So it has to be a multiple of three. Given how long I was running around the previous night, likelihood is I have been unconscious for 6 hours. I sit and regard my surroundings. Breathe deeply. Stretch the badly cramped muscles that I didn't take care of yesterday.

I am close to twitching at the state of both my clothes and my hands. I cannot look at them. Instead, I begin the walk back to civilisation. It takes me close to three hours. I have never been so relieved to have a shower in my life. I use the shower back at Alfred's haven, scrubbing every inch of skin until it is raw and pink. It feels good. The water is boiling hot. My fingernails and face are clean, as is, eventually (after 7 washes) my hair. Had to be a prime number. I have been out of control for too long.

The previous evening's feelings are slowly manipulated into shapes that I can shove back at the darkest point in my mind. Veil them in mist. Ignore them and function the same way you did the first year after leaving. That had been the hardest, but you did it. Do it again now.

Conditionally, I am going to work at Dick's hospital, as long as I am head of his project – no one else has the technical capability to work one what I am doing anyway. I will do my best to actually do something right for once. I head in eventually with a clean white shirt (it is so, so mercifully clean, white and pure, I can feel myself literally sigh in relief) underneath a jumper, and black slacks. I don't really need a jacket, or anything along those lines.

When I finally get to the hospital, I come armed with a small supply of things. A small bunch of flowers (it may be feminine, but Dick used to always say that plants brighten up a room), a couple of hats and some bits and pieces that Dick liked last time I saw him. Sweets, that sort of thing. Childish, but he takes joy in things that people otherwise wouldn't do. It is what makes him Unique. The hats consist of beanies that used to look ridiculous on Dick, but he loved them anyway, a bird hat (which is strangely suitable) and a few other different styles. I leave them in a box by his bedside, for when he wakes up. Which he will. Eventually.

I check what I need to check. The electricity stimulus is not presently necessary. The cell output is gradually looking differentiated. The chemical levels are within the correct parameters. Flowers are placed in a vase, and put by the windowsill (the vase was helpfully provided by one of the nurses). I have to leave the room after twenty minutes to wash my hands again. Damn. Today it seems to be particularly bad, given where I spent last night. I return with soapy water, and a sponge.

The next hour and a half is spent painstakingly cleaning as much of Dick as I physically can (within appropriate bounds). I wash his face carefully, ensuring to get every piece of skin possible, without aggravating the dermis. The neck, shoulders, collarbone; I clean his hands (not without having to clean mine first, again. Damn it!), make sure there is no dirt under his nails. I feel utterly ludicrous when one of the nurses offers me moisturiser for him.

Well. I suppose Dick would probably want that.

It takes a long time, and several trips to the bathroom, but I manage. When I am finished, I redress him in his gown (although I had not fully taken it off really) and pull the blankets back up. I hope that the coma allows him to dream. Where would Dick Grayson be without dreams?

I am staring at him from the depths of a chair when his little finger twitches. I shift the chair forward. It almost makes me want to… hold his hand. Just for a little. The idea of maintaining contact with anyone for that long makes me shudder. But I suppose that this is an exception.

My fingertips feel callous and painful against the smoother skin. I brush the pad of my thumb over the top his hand. It is all too familiar. I sit there for a good five minutes, just regarding him. Watching the breathing apparatus help him breathe. There is almost an imperceptible smile, but I am sure that is just an illusion of the light.

Five minutes, and I find myself running my hands under boiling water yet again. I hope this has calmed down by the end of the day, because it is thoroughly aggravating.

When I find the desk assigned to me downstairs, there is a… new laptop seated atop it. With a rather intriguing case. Ducks. Jason. That is ... very kind of him. I am sure that it was obtained by illegal means, but it does not mean that the sentiment is not there. Upon booting it up, not only does it have the latest OS and software, but the offer of scrabble. Which I may take him up on.

The gratitude I feel is close to overwhelming, but I shut it carefully away. I can reciprocate the gesture. It is half an hour later, once I have secured the computer somewhere safe, that I go out and buy three boxes of the death sticks that he smokes. It is not hard to locate his facility. I enclose them to a kind nurse, who will bend the rules for a 'friend' of Jason, with a small, sincere note. 'Thank you" is written in my italic penmanship. There's nothing else to express that kind of gratitude. Jason just gave me back a method of control.

~Damian POV~

It is a cycle. A wheel of spokes. It is wrong, so very wrong. But in some moments, some weak moments, I feel myself disinclined to go and see him at all. I know. I am a monster. I do not care what excuses you make. But...watching someone die...someone whose smile you can barely remember, whose gentle touch you can remember all too clearly...

Colin had been my rock. And now I am failing to be his.

I have decided it does not matter what Drake's motivations are. If he asks for something, I shall give it. If he does not, I shall...deal with the consequences of that, also. All that matters, is that this is a chance. I...do not allow myself to think of the positive outcomes. Of seeing him, able to wake in the morning without pain, to slip into sleep rather than be injected into it.

Drake will return. He will. He has to. Reciprocate kindness, he had said. This is...he acknowledges my efforts. That's...it's possible. It is. Too much hope. Hope is crushing. I retrieve his PDA from my pocket, keep the message simple. No more words. Too many words.

'Phoenix Institute, 2 PM, DBW'

The rain has stopped, when I arrive. But the air is heavier than it has been. Saturated, and almost hot. Like the precursor of a thunderstorm. I climb those familiar, sickeningly beige stairways in silence. The soles of my shoes squeak on the peppered linoleum.

I hear him, as always, before I see him. The soft rhythm of rocking. The sounds. Not whimpers, not sobs, not gasps. They're nothing. They're not childish, not adult. Not animal, and not human. They're just pain. Bubbling up and spilling out and eating him inside out. It sounds like death.

He is pleased to see me. For a moment. Before the pulse of the venom washes in and consumes the rear of emotion, that tiny snapshot, the micro-expression: the thimble dip of a dimple, the soft curve of lips rising. He used to be freckled but even they, it seems, are giving up, struggling to breach the surface. The plait I tamed his long hair into is unravelled and scraggly, but remains firmly, clinging, to his bleach-white scalp. Like rotting skin on a corpse.

Hold on.

He opens and closes his mouth, like a fish, for 78 seconds, while I sit patiently in front of him. No pity. No expectancy. Just patience. He chokes, then suddenly, smacks his head five times against the wall in quick succession. Trying to shake the words out. The words he cannot remember. I place my palm between his temple and the wall, and wince when his skull collides with my fingers.

"H-Hurts...D...D..." he grits out, in a voice that is spider thin, and I take my cue, and pull his head and shoulders into the pool of my crossed legs.

"I know."

I know, I know, I know. I massage his shoulders, raw, where the expansion and contraction makes his flesh loose and saggy, like an ill-fitting garment. He must spend hours in physical therapy, warm tanks, cold ones, anything, to tightens the muscles, only for the pain and the ugliness to return the next time he gets so much as slightly agitated.

I want to tell him that there is someone coming. Someone that might make the pain go away. But I cannot. If I say...and then it doesn't...if Drake does not come...he will surely die of grief. As will I.

"Smell..smell...smells-" he rocks and grunts against my inner thigh, nose running, drooling mucus against the material, and I realise, shit, I'm wearing Dick's jeans, which smell wrong, and he cannot even remember the word 'wrong', or 'bad', anymore, oh God "RRRRRRGH!"

I close my eyes with seconds to spare, and accept being thrown into the wall with the same patience that a hangman gives it's victims. I had relaxed my spine, so there is no bone damage, but the bruising, and the sheer force of the shock to my nerves, is quietly excruciating.

It takes a moment to feel the anxious, over-large hands, blistered, against my cheeks "Mi...mian...Dee...!"

I pull his head against my stomach and curl around it, painstakingly, feel the wetness of tears seeping into my crotch, and feel nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Sssss-" he hisses. The word, that one word, sorry, sorry, eludes him. I cut him off "Shhh. It is alright. I am unharmed."

I lie. A lot. That is what you do with people you love. Jason taught me that. I know what comes next. He hurls himself back, away, shrinks, literally, against the opposite wall. Points a shaking, bulging finger. Go.

I know by now to obey.

I almost do not see Drake, at first. I think I may have stood there for some time, staring straight through the third button of his white, blindingly white, shirt, before blinking and stiffening, and feeling the air becoming suddenly thicker than tar "You came."

Thank Allah.

I look him over. Take in the sheer amount of BLACK. His hair is blacker even than the clothes, however. I think it may even be the blackest of all of us. Dick's has a midnight blue, sheen. Mine, the slight tint of Arabian brown. And Jason's, well, he's...a redhead. The white of the shirt is stark against it. And the raw, prawn-pink of his hands.

I frown, and because I am not really thinking coherently yet, say "You should stop that. You have nice hands. Don't ruin them."

Nothing. I almost swallow, but do not. The time for weakness is over. So very, very over. And there is only one thing left to say. I will not ask, because I cannot...I cannot risk...cannot face...just...

"Help him. Please."

~Tim POV~

It is terrifying to watch. The crunch of fingers is enough to make even me want to wince. This patient, this child, is Colin Wilkes. He was injected with venom which caused all the cells' mechanisms which causes them to grow and divide to accelerate until he is beyond the size of any normal human. It is a fascinating, and tragic case.

When Damian exits the room and is dangerously close to colliding with me, before stopping, he is in a daze. It might be a mild concussion. I should probably check that at some point, when I am permitted to. I pull him a chair up, one that is just inside Colin's room, and ask him to sit down. A comment about my hands almost makes me ashamed, but that is returned to the box. The matter at hand is that which is important. The anti-venom syringe that I had concocted in the lab this morning after washing Dick hangs loosely in my pocket.

This is going to be different, for sure.

I enter the room slowly, making my footsteps audible so that I can alert the remaining occupant to my presence. I hold both my hands up to indicate there is nothing in them, given that I might have to instigate some form of paper-thin trust to even get the syringe near him.

"Hi Colin," I say gently, using the voice I usually do when I am around children who are scared of the procedures, or surgeries. Or those who cannot really comprehend the world, and act out. I have dealt with a lot more of those kind of patients than I think even Damian knows.

"My name's Tim. I'm a friend of Damian's." That's technically a lie, but to someone who is just a terrified child, in a body that he cannot necessarily control or comprehend, it is a detail that I don't really need to mention. I take two cautious steps forward. My hands drop to my sides. Another step. He looks sincerely afraid, despite the fact that his appearance and musculature would be more than enough to break both Damian and I as though we were toothpicks.

"I'm here to help. To stop it hurting so bad, ok?" It is odd to have to readjust my syntax again. But I have done it plenty of times before, and it is easier to do in English than any other language that I know, which I am, for once, grateful for. A book clips me in the shoulder as it goes whizzing past. That might make for an interesting shaped bruise.

My eyes flick to the floor between him and me. In the middle of no man's land lies Rory, the teddy that Damian so painstakingly fixed for Colin. Three quick steps, and I am in front of it. I bend to pick Rory up lightly, holding him as if he were a live animal. Apparently I am instantly perceived as a threat, as soon as I have Rory in my hands. It feels like being hit by a tonne of bricks when the fist collides with my face, knocking me against the wall. My shoulder clicks.

It is painful, but manageable.

Keeping a loose hold, I take another step closer still, and hold out Rory so that it is well within Colin's reach. He hesitates. Looks like he is confused. Glances between me and the teddy, and then cradles it, as a mother cradles a child. I don't know what the significance of this bear is, but it clearly means a lot. He backs away again, and sits down with a thump, instantly placated because of his hand on Rory.

"See? Rory's fine! He just wanted to see you, is all." He watches me with the wide eyes of a toddler, like he barely understands my words, aside from the name that he can cling onto. I sit just in front of him, so that I am visibly in his eye line. That is key in maintaining trust, or so I have found with patients like these.

Footsteps indicate Damian's arrival. I place a hand very gently on his forearm (the one that is not clutching his prized possession) and he watches me warily. Damian's presence has a calming effect, however, for I do not get another hit. I subtly get the syringe out of my pocket, and slide the needle in just above his elbow. He flinches, but does not resist. I let the liquid seep into his muscles. It takes 2 minutes and 18 seconds to take effect. The muscles shrink, the bones reduce in size, increase in density. And there is a young man, sat on the floor, no longer of the bulk that he was previously. I let the syringe roll harmlessly to the sideboard.

"Colin, you and Rory probably need to take a nap for a bit. It'll make you feel better." With the combination of painkillers, anti-venom and sedatives, it should knock him right out, without it even hurting. That voice makes me think of all the 5 year olds I have addressed in the terminal wing at my hospital at home. It is a sad thought. "Damian and I will help, if that's ok?" An imperceptible nod.

I aid him in standing, and Damian supports, not revealing any pain that he is undoubtedly in. We carefully keep the sleepy man-child standing until he in the bed that is designated to him. His eyes close almost instantly. I push Rory a little closer to his chest (for it is dangling halfway off the bed), and tuck the blankets around him.

He is almost completely out within another five minutes. When I am completely sure that he is entering at least alpha stage of sleep, I move to pick up the syringe, and quietly out of the room, closing the door only once Damian is out as well. Unconsciously, I rub at my right wrist. Now is not the time to need to wash your hands. Pull it together.

~Damian POV~

It is almost worse.

To perceive the phantom, the shadow, of Tim Drake, treat Colin with gentleness and compassion. Somewhere between here and the day I had first sent that erroneous parcel, the Tim Drake who inhabits my memories, the impassioned, somewhat...'nerdy', individual, had become separated from this cold shell of a man.

Is it a superimposition? Or is it more than a mechanised facade? Is it a remembered disposition, or a constructed one.

I do not watch Colin. I cannot. I stare instead at Timothy's hands. The blisters upon them, the rawness. That, if anything, should be my answer to the riddle of the previous night. His fingers are as he is: slender and inherently fragile, but strong. Soft, with a film of calluses. I perceive the precision, the calculation, in their movement. In the injecting, the slight crinkle between the eyes, the flit of irises, and recall, long ago, the overwhelming desire to smash his soft head open just to observe the bundle of neurons, to see if he ticks audibly on the inside, as I do.

As I aid lifting Colin, his slackness making my shudder, I find myself facing an odd dichotomy. I despised Tim Drake, but I respected him. I despise this...Timothy Drake, but he intrigues me as his former self...did not. So much. Part of me is...'put-out', as Dick would put it. Part of me abhors this foreign phantom, this shadow. I find myself craving the cold, heartless, intelligent, fierce, admirable bastard.

Admirable? I definitely have concussion. DEFINITELY.

~Tim POV~

The door closing is a sigh of relief. I force Damian once again to sit in a chair, this time using a hand to guide him. This is the first time that I have initiated contact with someone of my own free will that has not been a patient in a long time. I suppose I could possibly consider him a patient, seeing as I am presently checking him for concussion.

I check his airway, tilting his chin up, and holding one hand just an inch outside of his lips. Airway is clear and breathing is normal. Both fingers remain on his chin to clear a pathway to check for circulation. His mandible really is very strong in structure. Like Bruce's, but.. different somehow, in its curve. It makes for a very attractive person, that kind of definition.

My pointer and index finger rest in the curve of his neck, not taking long to locate a pulse. I check my watch, and count the beats for a minute. Usually you would only take a pulse for fifteen seconds and multiply it by four, but I have to get an accurate read. His skin is soft to the touch, and smooth, untarnished in the way that Dick's is. Perhaps they share the same moisturizing routine, my mind supplies helpfully. The tone of skin is very obviously a crossbreed. He does not have the same pallor that I possess, nor the slightly coarser colour that Jason has (though that may be from burns). There is a slight tinge of colour that is inevitably inherited from Talia's Arabian complexion.

Damn. I've lost count. Too much distraction. My fingers linger longer than they otherwise would, as the timer starts again. Eventually I deign his pulse to be perfectly normal - elevated, but within the right bounds. His laryngeal prominence moves millimetres up and down with each breath, perfectly proportioned.

I fumble in my top pocket to find the small light I keep for pupil dilation checks. I lightly take hold of his chin again - it is entirely impulsive, given I have done an examination such as this thousands of times. But it does not feel similar to those thousands, even if the procedure is the same. The air between us is thicker than water. There is still a prominent bruise on a high zygomatic bone - it should fade soon enough, but the array of colours between the centre of the bruise, and Damian's natural skin tone is fascinating.

I flick the light across one eye, and then the other. From a distance, the difference between Bruce's and Damian's orbits is only slightly noticeable. This close, and the difference seems monumental. The distinct almond shaped curve, of slightly narrower eyes, useful for every glare. The frame of thick, dark lashes accentuates the Arabian colouring and eyelid line. It is somewhat intriguing to discover that Damian's eyes have dual pigmentation - his irises must be mutant strain contain both (almost) gold, and strong cerulean lines.

His pupils are dilated as I move the light. They are able to follow it, which is a plus, but are larger than I would otherwise expect, possibly .5 of a centimetre as opposed to .2. Well, if it is indeed related to concussion, it will be self-evident in determining his temperature. I ask the nearest attendant for a thermometer. But apparently, the do not appear to have one on staff. There is only one part of the body that does not generate internal body heat, and therefore can give an accurate read.

I lightly press lips to his forehead, lingering only long enough to ascertain temperature accurately (which again, seems slightly elevated, but not enough to warrant a CT) and then pull back, an annoying, confusing sensation twisting at my gut.

"There is no evidence of concussion, but you might want to have your fingers x-rayed. Try to be more careful."

The final comment is said on instinct, without my even realising what I am doing. I frown. Where on earth did that come from?

~TBC~


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Damian's scars are from Batman and Robin, and various other comics, where Damian's organs are repeatedly replaced.

Warning: This is where the SEX begins, people. Colin/Damian, dub-con, and Tim/Damian, very much con.

~Prodigal Son, 11~

~Damian POV~

...fuck. Is all I have to say on this matter. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

I am bisexual. This much is perfectly evident, from my (previous...?) relationship, with Colin. And my many...escapades...during puberty. I like to experiment. To explore all realms of possibility. And, I like to think myself, even after my stunted emotional beginnings, a somewhat accurate judge of human sexual interaction.

And I swear by Allah and all other fictional deities, that Timothy Drake is FLIRTING with ME.

It is not done in the conventional fashion. No. And I am very much convinced that this is not simply my...childhood machinations...colouring my present disposition. As a boy, I had lusted after Drake in an entirely non-sexual capacity. I took from him. I broke him. I taunted him. It was the equivalent of the schoolboy immaturity, throwing rocks at the pretty girl on the swings. Not that I am entirely convinced, either Drake or myself could be considered the feminine in this...whatever this, is.

But it makes absolutely no logical sense.

Everything he has done, until this point. Everything between us, from the past. It makes. No. Sense. But I cannot find it within myself to even...care, particularly. Fuck. FUCK. Damn, but I never could resist a cold, heartless bastard. It is an unfortunate weakness of mine. And especially...well...this is Drake. He was an intangible embodiment of so very many things.

1 minute and 56 seconds is an absolutely excessive time to check someone's pulse. This I know. Although there is nothing, no indication of anything behind his eyes or his features, there is this palpable texture to the air and this practical stench of pheromones that is making my stomach roil.

I feel sick. I do not care. I cannot allow this. And I do not care. This will hurt me. His lips touch my forehead. Damn. I WANT this. I have always wanted this. You heartless, heartless, arsehole. I hate you. I hate you with every fibre of my being. And I would also very much like to fu-

I think I am going to be vomit. Get out. Get away from my face. Stop. You are going to leave. You do not CARE. Why are you doing this? Colin-

My entire body goes deathly cold. Drake is looking at me, expectantly. Not a shadow nor a breathe of- of that. Maybe I am going as insane as Jason Todd.

"Would you explain the medical procedure, please?"

He does so, with the usual rapt efficiency. I disgust myself, because I am barely even listening.

When Abuse awakens, it is languid, and slow, and I am glad. But then, he frowns. Scowls. And sniffs, once. Twice. Three times, hard. There is a numb ringing between my ears. I hold the cool bar of the gurney with limp, inert fingers. As a condemned traitor at the dock.

He can smell sex on me.

He knows it was not enacted. But he can smell...something. Drake probably stinks entirely of soap and medical supplies. Perhaps it will be indistinguishable. And I am already talking like a lover having an affair. When nothing. Has. Happened.

Fuck you, Drake. Seriously. Fuck you. I...do not know what to feel. And I do not know what to think. Colin. Think of COLIN. But I cannot. I do, but not in the way that I should. How can I? His mind...the man I knew...the teenager, who shared my first cigarette, who fixed motorcycles with me, who bled beside me, is...is not...

Cold, wet, thin lips find my ear "...wa...nt...?"

He sounds dreamy. Whimsical. Like a child, but entirely unlike a child. He is not a child, he is a man. A man who is forced to think like a child. But how can I know that? How can I know any of this? I cannot be sure-

"...mian..."

I am flat on the floor. And I am not entirely sure how this happened. It is cold. And slippery. Wet. Colin's wrists are thin, but I can see the venom, pulsing, dully, down to the curls of his knuckles, as his hands flex, around my biceps, hesitate. He bites his lip, leans down, auburn hair falling over my torso, and sniffs, deeply, at the junction of my neck. My forehead. Where Drake touched me.

The fingers tighten around my upper arms until I can practically feel the bones creak, and he makes sounds, babbling sounds, curious sounds, interested sounds, angry sounds. Like a baby.

The bile rises like a tide in my throat, and I choke on it, feel his hands press down in a pin and perceive his head ducking beyond my peripheral vision. Because I am looking at the ceiling. At the tiles. At the mould. The flecks of plaster-

His mouth clearly remembers what his mind cannot.

I cannot move. I cannot. I am about to be pleasured by a mentally retarded invalid and I am going to let him. I do not tremble. I do not move at all. I close my eyes and count the pulses of my heart, and feel the phantom of Drake's fingertips keeping the beat, and twistedly, twistedly, am comforted by the memory. His lips are sloppy around me, catch on the zipper, bleed on me.

When I orgasm, I almost retch into the back of my throat, with it. I am vaguely aware that those are Dick's jeans. And that I shall have to burn them. And the entire sticky patch of skin on my stomach. I shall skin it. Or scald it off. His weight recedes, and he frets, like a scolded boy, and blushes, and bites his thumb. Somehow, I kiss his forehead, and carry him to bed.

I do not notice opening the door. Passing somebody made of blackness, with a halo border of white. Do not notice the voice calling after me. Where am I going, it asks.

Where am I going? I am going to go out and get so drunk I can barely breathe, then get fucked until I feel I have bled enough for the guilt and the sickness to go away.

~Tim POV~

Damian has remained beside Colin pretty much ever since I have been permitted to examine him for a concussion. I have been remaining in the observation room, writing up the side effects of the drugs I administered, checking notes, rechecking what I should be doing in the next couple of days or so, and I am absorbed up until the point where I hear a body hit the floor.

I stand sharply. Colin is covering Damian on the floor. I had… potentially anticipated that they had a relationship such as this prior to Colin's mental incapacitation, but I did not in a thousand years think it possible for that to be continued regardless of each person's mental state.

It takes a few seconds to work out what I am apparently going to end up watching. Not out of any sick pleasure, but more … the inability to look away. The same way that when someone dies, regardless of how horribly they do, you watch until the very end. Just visible, beyond the end of the bed, is a pair of scarred legs, with jeans hitched downwards. My fists curl.

Why? Why would Damian allow…? I assume, judging by the lack of movement, that Damian is not participating. And it seems only dubiously consensual. Does it count as rape if one of the parties doesn't really know what they are doing? If the other party is adhering to everything out of guilt? That is the only logical explanation. Damian is faulting himself for something, and consequently allowing Colin this...act.

Acid burns my throat. I can do nothing. This is not my battle to pick. If I report it, Damian and Colin will probably be prohibited from seeing each other again, and Damian will end up being the person held accountable. Fuck! Clench and unclench. Clench and unclench. I wish it would stop. I wish the man-child would cease, and get the hell off Damian Wayne.

Damian leaves in a world of his own. I doubt sincerely that he hears me. I leave my work at the station I was at, and follow as best I can without being seen. Damian ends up in a very sleazy looking bar.

Again, I am powerless to watch as he drinks enough to burn a hole through his own stomach. It is to forget, the act of downing that much alcohol. It is something that I was once very familiar with, in the second year. There is only so far I can interfere. I have already done enough following him, it is really stepping over the line, but I cannot bear to leave him alone.

It is not long before he looks perfectly inebriated. His movements are slower, his hair falling out of place – words float across the bar, and come across slurred.

Then he is on the move, swaggering across the bar to two men who I don't like the look of. The first strike to his face makes me grit my teeth, and bare them, ever so slightly. Damian smiles. Apparently this was what he was aiming for. The second one makes my blood boil. They are dragging him towards the bar's exit by the hair. It has been a very long time since I have seen any form of anger that is hot, writhing like a demon in my gut, but this makes me want to murder both of them.

I must not kill them. But there are so many worse things than death. I leave before they do, having been seated near the door, and await the first one, who is already fumbling with a belt. A snarl that is not mine is elicited from beyond my lips. The man is slammed into a wall. I break both his knees in less than twenty seconds, striking behind his eardrum to cause the most pain, and press my thumb into the cavity between his collarbone hard. He slumps to the floor.

The other one, dragging Damian, appears. He does not see his friend, nor realise that I am behind him. I break the wrist that holds Damian with a definite snap. Both hands dig deep into the flesh underneath his jaw from behind and jerk it backwards, and sideways. One is unconscious. That one is probably going to be paralysed for life. Hopefully he will become a quadriplegic.

Damian's reactions are slowed enough that I am able to pull him quickly into a fireman's carry and start walking. I was fortunate that bar didn't have CCTV. The men are left moaning in the gutter. I can't find anything in me to give a damn, or feel anything but utter loathing for them. Disgusting creatures.

I take him to one of my old apartments, under one of my old aliases. It is still fairly pristine when I finally enter. The Arabic idiot I am presently wearing is lowered down onto the bed. As soon as I have put him down, I whirl on him. For once, I can feel anger rising visibly. I'm sure it is written all over my face.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" I hiss, standing over him now that he is seated, and I am taller. Both my fists are curled tightly. "Not only going to a bar, getting drunk when you have had potential head trauma today, but propositioning men who would hurt you physically? Do you think physical punishment is going to solve anything?" My voice doesn't rise. I can feel the cold, calculated anger that caused me to paralyse a man mere minutes ago come across in my voice.

"What purpose would your pain by the hands of two homophobes serve?"

~Damian POV~

What the FUCK do you think you are doing, Drake, you flat-arsed piece of uncaring shit! I had a good thing going there! Cockblocking CUNT. Cockblocking cunt with really very attractive ears. I want to lick one. It is in front of my nose.

I remember hearing a thud. Lots of thuds. And cracks. Noises of pain. Drake's face. His rounded, pointy face, with those bow lips that would be oh so pretty if they weren't always fucking pursed like there's a lemon under his nose and up his ASS. That would sting. Anger, teeth, heat in that cold face. Heat in my belly.

I'm dumped on a bed. Thrown. I like that. Been tossed into a wall today. Fuck. What point would it serve? What would it SERVE? It would make me feel better, it would- or- actually no. It would have made me feel worse. But it would have pushed and pushed and obliterated anything else but the pain.

Drake's breathing a little hard and his perfect, perfect shiny hair is in mild disarray across his forehead. I remember his face close to mine. The pressure of his fingertips. The smell, the smell, red leather and sweat and spit in my face-

"Fuck you." I snarl, bolt upright, seize him by the hips and yank him up over the bedstead and on top of me.

His face is blank. That cold superior emptiness and the sheer weight and the hard muscle and the neat, neat clothes and that stupid shiny head that I want to crack open and listen to the tick tick tick-

"You know..." our faces are so close that when my nostrils flare with each, heavy breath, the skin brushes and the cool, mathematic architecture swell of his nose "you're an arsehole. A cold, heartless, cockblocking, teasing BASTARD."

My cheeks and ears roar with blood, and I am hot and prickly all over and he is cold cold cold, and I fold my arms around the curve of his tailbone and CRUSH him to me, revel in the weight, dip my head up and fit the square plans of my face into the ill-fitting mould of his curved one. I let out a long, heavy breath against his skin, watch the fine strands of hair, immaculate and straight, flutter and fret in the gust, and I want to move him, I want to break him and move with him and in him and him in me and to disappear into him and him to GO AWAY and stay-

"And it is such a fucking TURN-ON." I whisper, except it is GUTTURAL and lilted and old and young and my voice and nobody elses, and God I WANT this, want him...

I hesitate, just a hiccough, then swallow his intake of breath with my mouth, grin against his surprised 'o' and bite down and grind and tug at the bow of his bottom lip until the blood paints both our teeth Robin Red.

~Tim POV~

I am being cussed out, and then the world slights, and I collide with the hard mass that is Damian Wayne, in a disarray of limbs. My hands land one on his shoulder, the other beside his head, an elbow to support the latter being my only leverage above him. Fuck me? Is that a request, demand, or just a statement of fact?

I regard him coolly through slightly slitted eyes. He is millimetres away. And I'm not sure what I want to do the most. Punch him, or kiss him to make him shut the fuck up. Stop talking, Damian. You're drunk, says the rational part of my brain. But with one of my legs between both of his, and the other one sprawled on _my_ bed, atop him, rationality doesn't really play a leading role here. I can almost feel my lips twitching at all the accusations. That must be some form of a compliment coming from him.

Then he is biting at my lip, and my only thought is that I am not going to be bested by a man who is drunk off his face, and only able to express arousal through profanity. Damian Wayne can be beaten at his own game, and I'm going to be the one to do it. A metallic taste floods my mouth, and a slightly insane grin presses against his lips. I let the rest of my weight lie atop him, without my holding it up whatsoever. One arm braces, whilst the other grips tightly at the back of his neck, forcing him ever closer so that I have better exploratory access.

You're not the only one who can play, Damian. It is very satisfactory to draw blood back. The demon spawn may have sharp teeth, but he doesn't know exactly where to _bite_.

I break the contact in favour of licking my teeth, and there is an idea forming on his expression that I do not like. I press hard into the two tendons at the base of his neck, easy stimulus, but it does not deter him. Teeth pull the top button of my shirt off.

That little SHIT. He's got BLOOD on my fucking SHIRT.

I'm sure he'd be amused to see my eyes conveying anger. I pull my hips tighter against his, only to have the rest of the buttons taken off as he rips the damned thing open.

"You little fuck!" I growl, grabbing the back of his hair, and yanking it back to expose an untouched column of neck. Fun. Don't mess with someone who knows exactly where every single pressure point is, and how to use it to his advantage is. I stop for a moment to regard him, gently pressing each point with my free hand. I note the twitches, which betray him, as everybody would be forced to react, and bite hard, sucking the skin between my teeth.

I 'treat' four different pressure points, the ones that elicited the most reaction from him, to the same remedy, a firm grip keeping his head tilted back to reveal the soft underside of his jaw. Something to play with for later. Clamping down on the junction between neck and knotted shoulder muscle gives me the most pleasure, as it causes Damian to jerk a little more than his control would like, I'd imagine, given I can feel it. He starts cursing in Arabic, much to my amusement.

Something about "had such a fucking crush, you asshole" and "red leather". Hmn. Interesting factoids for later.

Time for some new territory, given he has already RUINED one of my favourite shirts.

I begin to push up the shirt he has on presently, only to be received by muscles locking up. One eyebrow rises, and I glance at his face. Fear. Now I really want to know what is under there. A few inches, and the beginnings of a scar is seeing the light of day. An intricate, sewn scar, akin to those I staple after an autopsy.

"Fascinating" I find myself muttering, without even consciously doing so. I push the shirt up further, and trace the long scar line with the hand I have just had to untangle from the now fairly unkempt hair. The skin has knitted together as though subjected to an environment that is not in vivo blood clotting. I sit up a little to see it properly, utterly fixated. So many mysteries wrapped in one fun-sized box. I can't even tear my view away for the moment, so transfixed that I is the only thing I concentrate on. Heh. Bet I'm going to get called a freak, or something equally immature for this one.

~Damian POV~

Holy-Inpromptu-Makeout-Session-Batman! Because Timothy Drake fights fucking DIRTY. This is unexpected. And really quite excellent.

We are matched. Forcing and pushing and grinding each others weaknesses into powder, and I revel in the ecstasy of his twitchings, the dilation of his pupils in those moments where he loses his precious CONTROL, where I violate his patterns and fuck with his mind.

I run my palms along the planes of his torso, recall seeing this very muscular structure, the curves and the dips and peaks encased in bright red leather, blood red leather, and remembering the carpet burn of the mansion and a fist in my face makes the hardness and the heat and the pressure only build, because he was once My Enemy and supposed to be Brother and that is, frankly, HOT. The violation. The sin.

Bringing yet another Giant of my boyhood crashing down to Earth to lay among the mortals, and-

Oh.

No. Get off. I...don't look. Don't TOUCH. Fuck off, it's...it...

...fascinating?

That...that's different. But then that is why...why I...why I am intrigued by him. Because he is different. But...the nakedness of my torso is more naked than my entire body could ever be. My Frankenstein nature, laid bare. The fact that my existence is a construct. A freak. Contrived. Maintained by a madwoman. I am a conglomeration of contrived parts.

...can't you love me for who I am, not who you want me to be...?

No. I am too much of a perfectionist.

Yes. Perfection. And I shall never be perfect. I shall never even be...whole...fuck. Alcohol. Drake. Cold fingers. Red lips. I fold my arms over my eyes, and laugh to swallow my shivers.

~tbc~


	12. Chapter 12

~Prodigal Son, 12~

~Tim POV~

He covers his eyes. I am not sure whether or not is a gesture of shame, or not wanting to see my reaction to him. I am still occupied with the scar. I want to see how far it goes. The shirt is gradually being pushed further and further up. He mutters about people having sex with him, because he looks like his Father. Who the hell would fuck Damian Wayne for the sake of Bruce? Bruce is a lump of coal, where Damian is a raging fire, that will lick, and spit and burn you worse than anything you'll every experience again. Or at least, given his ability to torment people, and seek their weaknesses, this is what I expect.

The scar crosses over his torso in a 'Y' shape. So it is just like an autopsy scar. My theory was correct. "Is it going to be necessary for me to list the physical differences alone between you and Bruce that I've noticed in this week alone? The facial and musculoskeletal differences?" I ask, close to deadpan. I would never sleep with anyone because they resembled another person. Each human has a separate set of features, and there is no joy in attempting to imprint features onto someone who does not have them.

I pause in my tracing the skin amalgam, and forcibly pull Damian's arms off his eyes, clasping both wrists above his head. I still just about have enough reach to dip my face, rest it shallowly against his abdominal muscle near his diaphragm. I inhale. And then lightly trace the scar that has Damian so afraid with my tongue. It is just like any other scar. But it makes Damian different. It makes him unique. Interesting. And simultaneously an anomaly.

I lavish attention on the hill of skin that joins all three lines, underneath his collar bone, my nose brushing against the t-shirt which is beginning to come down again. I had to move a leg to straddle him with greater ease, allowing better access. The muscles of his chest contort, and I watch them. I almost want to cut the scar open to see the tissue behind it. But I resist the temptation. I'm not that sadistic.

~Damian POV~

I am actually frightened. But in a heady, interesting way. Shit, if I had known all I had to do to break Drake's control was to throw myself at him, all that treasure hunting bullcrap could have been discarded. Except...it mattered.

"Doctor, Doctor." I murmur, and smirk widely, because admittedly that particular sexual kink? I would not be completely adverse to "What's the cause of death, I wonder?"

Ngggh! Ohdearfuck he is- LICKING it. The sheer audacity is- ugh nevermind who gives a SHIT. I will not be humiliated and dominated and controlled like this! I am Damian Wayne! I swallow and contort my vocal cords and feel a warm rush of fond. And excitement. Because blasphemy and incest are delicious.

"What're you doing down there, little bro? That tickles!" I say, with that huuuum chuckle that Dick always uses when he is amuuuused, and Drake freezes, for a moment, and it is all I need to surge up against him and flip and scramble and PIN.

I pin one of his arms in an almost completely unknown grip of Chinese discipline, and ohshit his face, that skin, has a sheen of sweat and his hair is dank and smooth and EVERYWHERE, his cheeks flush and plump with blood, and heat pools between my legs and I insinuate a thigh between his legs, hummm, and gyrate, almost nonchalantly.

He bites his lip. I want to tell his teeth to get the fuck off of my property.

Expect the unexpected, arsehole. I bring his other hand to my lips and suck each knuckle, hard, then slip his forefinger, of his right hand, the most used appendax of his entire body, into my mouth, rest it in the congeal of blood and saliva cradled the the bowl of my tongue, and- well.

I watch the pressure build, calculate the precise moment when he would be incited to form a new offensive, and release his finger with a wet pop, lollypop wet, and wriggle up his bare chest to look him in the eye.

"You are going to come now." I murmur, in my voice, and bite at his chin because I have always wanted to "And I am going to watch you."

I release his hands, want him free for this, wrap my arms around his waist like the embrace of a child and tuck my chin against his sternum, laden, staring unblinkingly up at his face as I rock my lower body precisely in a crescendo. It builds in me also, and I watch and think of nothing but this this this and want and YES.

And I see him.

The walls come crumbling down for a precious photographer's moment and I see Tim Drake, and so when I follow him over the precipice I grit out an almost incomprehensible "Tim."

~Tim POV~

In hindsight, the mistake I made was allowing myself to believe that Damian Wayne wouldn't fight below the belt. What utter foolishness that truly was. My exploration was ground to a very abrupt halt (literally more than metaphorically) upon the simple utterance of a phrase;

_"What're you doing down there, little bro? That tickles!"_ It sounds so exactly like Dick that I pause, eyebrows knit together in confusion, and without any chance to regain the upper hand, I am on my back, in his grip.

"Shit! "

I strain in vain against his grip on the one hand that I have lost use of, the other is caught without a second thought. There is a muscular thigh between my legs, moving against me, the sensation burning through my lower body. The contact alone is driving me insane – I am forced to clamp my mouth shut, lest I make any embarrassing noises that could be used against me.

Everything is so very out of control. My attention is focused solely on what Damian is doing to my hands; I peer through my lashes, mesmerized, and my interest only semi-veiled. The skin is raw enough to be extremely sensitive, and the enclosure of my forefinger in such moist heat is enough to send blood searing around my system; its withdrawal from his mouth as oddly arousing as it is dirty.

It is both petrifying and exciting, that I no longer have any rein over my actions whatsoever. And any semblance of composure goes flying out of the window when Damian states exactly what is going to occur.

Oh God. The words alone are enough to shoot sparks down my spine, and I jerk unchecked into the arc of contact that he instigates. I suddenly register that my hands are free, and I don't know what to do with them.

"Fuck, Damian!" The words are gasped and my head is tilted back against the bed to maximise oxygen intake. I can barely inhale anymore without it sounding ragged! One fist finds its way up to Damian's hair, knotting in the locks, the other claws at its back, attempting to find something to grasp besides the writhing muscle, but there is nothing, and it ends up splayed against a shoulder blade.

I am forced over the brink mercilessly. My eyes unfocusedly raise to the ceiling, though they are mostly closed, and my lips remain open half a centimetre so that I remember to keep breathing.

Absently, I register that I should be mortified, but it is difficult to think when every nerve has just been set alight. My face feels as though it is on fire, but most thought patterns have been obliterated in the high, so I just let warm emanate from my cheeks for a little. It can be resolved later. When I am more able to string a coherent thought together.

It proves difficult to untangle the fingers of my right hand, but once free, it roams to rest at the base of Damian's back.

The thought 'what the fuck just happened' flits through my mind, and I quash it.

Attempting to calm my over-loaded body takes longer than I would like. Everything feels a little more slack than tense, but regardless, I am grateful for both the body weight and heat that I have sandwiching me between him and the bed.

I tilt my head to the side. The air is palpably filled with the sharp combination of sweat, alcohol and copulation. It doesn't disturb me as much as it ought to do.

My brain decides of its own volition to start drawing languid circles with the pad of my thumb at the crook between Damian's last vertebrae, and his pelvis. Meanwhile, I am trying to gather my shredded wits, without much success. Ah well. I guess lying here a little isn't going to hurt anybody.

~Damian POV~

I am exceedingly vulnerable after sexual intercourse.

This thought floats languidly across the muggy hazy of warmth and pulsation and liquid limbs pooling around hard muscle, but it seems of little consequence. My thighs fit in a comfortable sprawl around the curve his legs. His muscles are lax. They lack the...tenseness...of these past days. Maybe...

"I do not understand you..." I mouth lazily, in somewhat of an echo, against the dip of his collar. Those...fingers...tease at my tailbone and the base of my spine and...damn...Dick even...calls that my off...button...

"Huummmm..." my toes curl and my fingers twitch against the downy skin of his wrist. I...sometimes imitate Marktwo. Fucking...vocal cords. I rumble against his torso, feel the cage of his ribs swallow the sound.

I want...

I do not know. This. I suppose. Him. But...like this? What is this? To me? To him? I feel better. Not good, but better. But I should not. And I should not be leaving myself, seams ripped wide open, like Rory-

No...

I clench my thick eyes shut, tight, tight like some ridiculous child, but allow no other seep of my sensations into my body, maintain that distant rumbling in my throat. Recall that, this is not Tim Drake. I saw him but he is...will be...and that although Timothy's body is warm, he is still...cold. That he is not staying.

If you are going to leave, please do it now. Please. Before I cannot bear to function without this.

I am being lifted. My hot skin finds cooling sheets, and heat and warmth and skin and body and somebody and safety flees into the black behind my eyes. I have the unacceptable urge to curl and fold myself until my bones break and I disappear into the nothingness I should have been. I shiver. So hard, it hurts.

And only, shamefully, come back.

~Tim POV~

I lie as long as I can, before I feel the urge to be clean again. The body heat that has been shared is enough to combine both utter exhaustion and lethargy, and leave me against Damian longer than I otherwise would have been able to manage. Eventually, however, insanity overtakes, and I have to roll him off. I pluck a few clothes from out of the nearest chest of drawers (always kept there, in the case of an emergency ID change, and still untouched) and head for the bathroom.

It doesn't take long to shower, and to get everything clean again. The ice water (as there is no hot water in this long abandoned flat) burns cleanliness into my veins, which serves as a comfort. I feel a little cold upon leaving, but it will eventually subside. Thankfully I only wash my hands 5 times this time. It would be a pleasant experience to not have to worry about how many layers of skin you end up scrubbing off, just once, but that does not seem to be an experience I am going to have anywhere near in the imminent future. I have to dry them very, very carefully with the towel, as now the sensation is balancing precariously between raw, and exceedingly painful.

I dress swiftly, ready to move out of the door and leave this apartment. But I don't. I stand in the newly acquired jeans, and t-shirt, and pause to look at the person who is so talented in making me angry. The sight I am greeted with makes me frown.

"Damian, that's putting unnecessary stress on your muscles. You're going to end up breaking a tendon. Stop it, now. " I'm not even sure why I care. My motives, which up until this point have been entirely logical and only a little unscrupulous, fall into question, but I do not have a rational answer as to why I want to remain. Perhaps I am just too tired to really consider logic. It is bewildering, and dangerous not to think logically, but in this instance, I do not.

Instead, I follow the path my feet wish me to take, and return to the comfort of a bed, having unconsciously chosen a place where Damian infiltrates my personal space. That does not phase me either, which is definitely worrying. We are virtually adjacent, and I do not want to push him away.

What am I doing? When was the last time I adhered to something irrational, something that I wanted to do?

There is the start of bruising on his bicep. I brush the curve of my palm against it. Not any major muscle damage, as far as I can tell without a biopsy. It's got to be painful. It is odd to observe a musculature structure that is entirely unfamiliar - see where the tendons begin, where the deltoid begins, and how refined each one is under tight skin. My fingers skim over the trapezius and arc behind a shoulder blade, coming to rest flat on his right latissimus dorsi. There is knotting evident in his teres major and minor, lumps of muscle which have twisted, and never been attended to. Bruising on his erector spirae. I do not need to ask to know where any of it came from.

Unfortunately I am forced to remove my hand from the enthralling section of muscle as he rolls over. And as always, I just watch, and attempt to anticipate the next move. Although even I know that this is no longer just a game, with a winner, or a loser. It is infinitely more complicated now.

~Tim POV~

Timothy's touch is unlike any other touch I have ever experienced.

It is not warm, like Dick's. Dick's palms exude feeling; whisper of jumbled thoughts and calm and affection. His fingertips practically sing. Timothy's do not sing. They calculate. They appreciate. They evaluate. There is a languid intensity which is entirely lacking in sexuality.

I feel my muscles, tendon by tendon, unwinding beneath them.

Truce. All rules defunct. Timothy seems to be instigating such a policy, and so I right myself, and indulge. Tug at that incredibly fine, soft hair. Dick's is thick. Smooth rather than soft, and curly. I have observed that he perhaps has some foreign ethnicity in him. Gypsy, I think. But this is not Dick. This is Tim. And the burning, the...want...is very different.

Not stronger. But more potent.

His hair is my first childhood trophy. His hands the second. I lick. I know, that I am again imitating Alfie. Marktwo. My cat. And it is not...to elicit arousal. I want to help. I do not want his hands to hurt. I do not want to have been the one who did this. I press my lips against each fingertip. Do not think about the staying or the leaving. Just the now.

"Tim." I think I fantasise myself voicing it, the hope, and allow myself to fall asleep with my cheek cradled in his limp, cooling, upturned palm.

~tbc~


	13. Chapter 13

~Prodigal Son, 13~

~Tim POV~

It doesn't matter how many times I seem to watch, Damian's actions never really have a sense of coherency. They are so emotionally driven, in the same manner that Dick's are. It is strange to think that the person I initially remember to be Damian Wayne, is nothing like the way he is now. It is funny just how much the years can change a person, dependent on what interpersonal stimuli they receive.

It is also absurd for him to trust so openly, and fall asleep against my palm, but the walking conundrum that he is does it anyway. Perhaps he has been spending too much time with those of a feline nature? The saliva on my hands sting, but it soothes as well. This whole scenario is just too strange for my brain to be able to compute, so I just lie, and watch. Try to discern what Damian's thought process is. His sleeping position itself shows just how defensive he can be - curled up a little. Or is that just inherent comfort of being next to another person? I cannot tell. That unnerves me.

At some point, my thoughts end up wandering, to the point that before I know it I am fast asleep. It is restless, troubled sleep, and I can feel myself awake at various points in the night. It feels like hallucinations, but perhaps it is dreams. There is a period of just blank, where I remember nothing. When I awake, the presence next to me is gone. My fingers feel really stiff. Shit. I can only hope that they did not get so cold the muscles locked.

When I open my eyes, there are thin, white bandages wrapped around them. Clean bandages. Puzzling. Did Damian bandage my hands? Why? I sit up, and look around. The room is deserted. There is a single white sheet of paper, cut in a perfect square, with an 'appointment' on it. 11. I check my watch. It is already 8. I have things that need to be done.

I drop back to Alfred's to get some more appropriate attire. Shower with plastic gloves on so that I don't ruin the bandages. Then set on my first task of the morning - I head out to Gotham's shops to pick up some new flowers for Dick, a few new shirts (as I seem to be running out, yet again, they are becoming discarded or ruined very quickly) and a small model car, the Lexus model. I take a few minutes to write 4pm on a small scrap of paper, and slot it just inside the door.

Dick I visit first. The flowers are replaced, and I check everything. Unfortunately he has already been washed today, so instead (no matter how ridiculous it makes me feel) I talk to him about mundane things. It only lasts ten minutes, but it makes me feel a little better. He is listening, even if he doesn't know it - the REM beneath his eyelids show as much.

Jason is next. I don't actually see him (the nurse says he is asleep as it is his naptime, apparently), so I request politely that she passes the small gift on. It is in a red box, almost like a gift. He always liked cars, and I owe him a game of scrabble. Maybe something mutual like that would be beneficial.

When I finally reach the facility where Colin is held, Damian is not there. The IV's and equipment have been made available, but it is going to take some time to set up. Each tube has to be placed as a line, one going into a major artery, one into a major vein. It is a little like chemotherapy, but in reverse - things are being removed from the blood. The affinity column has been prepared with the ant venom, and the right antibodies placed on it. The first one will take about 5 hours to complete. I prepare the L-Dopa for immediately following.

The appointment time comes, and goes, and Damian remains unseen. I ask the receptionist if there have been any messages. Apparently nothing. I will not start this without him. So instead, I fiddle with the machine's calibration, and keep myself busy. Eventually, once everything is set, I am forced to get a coffee, and sit in the observation room. It would be unwise and unfair to subject Colin to something like this prior to Damian being here. He is already semi-sedated, but I won't administer the final sedative just yet.

~Dick POV~

I smell flowers. They're lovely. And different, every...day, it must be days. I feel it lighten and darken. And voices, familiar, different, old and new. I'm not in pain, but I am very still, which is a little annoying, because I think I normally enjoy moving around a lot.

I can hear Tim. I think I see him. He's safe. He's home. I smile.

I want to fly again.

~Jason Pov~

A PRESENT! Oh man, this is fuckin' sweet. Hey, whoever said bein' two hubs short of a cap don't have perks, huh? It's in a box. I like boxes. I can put things in them and then take them out then put them back in again, and know where they are.

A...Lexus. I want a bigger one! Awww but this is awesome, m'gonna call it Luthor, cos of the Lex. I always always always wanted lil' toy cars but I got baseball cards instead when I was a GOOD BOY and didn' struggle. HATE baseball. Hate bats. Baseball bats and flying rats. Hate crowbars.

I race it aaaaall over everything, then open the little door and POW WHAM BIFF (well kinda not but I like makin' the sounds) there's a secret message! Holy Espionage! Hey hey heeeeey I know that scrawly curly spider writing. Timmy! I wonder what Scrabble will be like with the Duckster? Different...

I'm gonna clean up cos I feel like it. Gotta brush up for guests, Jaybird! Plus there's fuck all else to do...

Gonna race some more first.

~Damian POV~

I arrive 50 minutes late. But I had asked Dick, did he think I was doing wrong, and it felt like he said, no. And Dick is always honest. He wouldn't lie to save any of us. He would rather we were saved. He must have been a born-again Christian in another life.

He's starting to get a dark fuzz on the top of his head. Thank GOD. The very idea of him waking up...shorn...is somewhat petrifying. The Wrath of Richard Grayson is not something to be sneered upon. Plus, I think he would be a little heartbroken. I hope it grows back just as thick. And hopefully less greying.

Drake had left more flowers.

I could tell they were from him, by the demographic and angles in which they were arranged, the complimentary colours, laid out like the colour wheel. No colour adjacent to one it is not neighbour to in the rainbow spectrum. Perhaps I should be more concerned about his obsessive compulsive habits. I should say...something.

When I see him, it is a smack in the face. Yet not unpleasant, inexplicably. I can feel a slight sheen of colour in my cheeks. But I do not regret. And although the air is uncomfortable, it is not awkward.

He looks good. Washed. Nice.

...ugh. I despise myself so very much right now. He is cold again, but I find that I do not mind. I am glad for his control. For my sake, and for his. I shall address it is an issue, later. After...Colin. Who Dick has assured me, is not my fault. And I believe him. I still need to fathom...how I feel, however.

I clear my throat "My apologies for my tardiness. Shall we proceed?"

It is not meant to be an attack. If Drake can find solace in this emotional detachment, so can I.

~Tim POV~

When Damian finally arrives, it is not as awkward as I would have otherwise assumed. We begin the procedure, and I set up a chair for Damian to be next to Colin, given that is where a patient's family usually sit. The chair is steel, and probably uncomfortable, but that is the only type of chair here. If there were ones with screws, or wood, patients could use them.

I monitor Colin closely. I can't tell what his pain thresholds are, or whether or not it hurts. I can only be sure that the sedative knocks him out entirely. The venom is gradually sectioned off into the chamber that I prepared for it - I will be using it for further study with permission.

The day runs slowly. It takes a long time to fully cleanse that level of blood. I am under no illusion, it won't take one day. But it will certainly help. During lunch, I study the concentration of the venom that is in the container. It is at such a high concentration, it is beginning to make some of the erythrocytes in the few cells that come with it erode. That would be what was killing his neurones. Halfway through the treatment, I stop in favour of injecting the L-Dopa. Give it twenty minutes, then restart.

Most of the time I spend in the observation room is running molecular studies on the atom that I have been given to play with. I have to keep a careful eye on Colin's brain chemistry as I go, but I have set the computer to ring alarm bells should it reach anywhere near slightly different. Everything seems fine.

I go to get coffee half an hour before the procedure is due to end. I have shortened the time to 4 hours, as it has been more successful than I could have anticipated, in terms of his vital functions. The machine is in the doctor's lounge, and the television is on, blaring in the background. Good, at least they have real coffee. Although for once in my life, I do not feel fatigued. Perhaps I slept for a deceptively long period the previous evening

_"And rumours have been confirmed today that Superboy has returned to Gotham. Whether it is on personal business, or official, there is no report yet, but he has been sighted by bird watchers flying around this morning. Gotham is blessed once again with- " _

I drop the coffee with a resonating crash. People turn to look at me. I can feel their eyes burning the back of my head. I clean up quickly, the bandages on my fingers getting stained from coffee, and cut from the ceramic edges. They are put in a safety bin. I leave the lounge. It takes ten minutes to negotiate the bandages, which have been expertly wrapped, away from my fingers. I spend the next ten minutes washing them. 17. Damn. That's a decline in control from the previous day. I very nearly wash them again after that. It is not so much getting them clean, anymore, but getting the feel of all my failures off.

I can't hold the new cup of coffee that is presented to me by a kind nurse. My exposed nerve bundles twinge painfully at the exposure to heat without much protection. When I return to my observation room, the desk is too messy. I spend a few minutes rearranging. Paper perpendicular to the desk edge, 1 cm away. Pens arranged in height order. My coffee mug is placed with its handle facing into the point of the desk. I straighten my computer.

Damn. Damn Damn DAMN. Fucking hell. I wish i could cut my OWN brain open to stop this stupid nonsense!

When the time is up, I switch off the machines, and unplug Colin. The machines are moved away and out of reach, back into the observation facility. I apologise for my abrupt conduct to Damian, and inform him of an appointment, for no apparent reason. Then I leave. Fuck. Conner is here, in Gotham.

God I wish for the simplicity of Japan.

I end up walking the two blocks to Jason's facility. I shove the mask over my face, but it doesn't appear to be hiding anything today. I guess the fact that I keep folding and refolding the jumper in my hands is a dead giveaway that something is wrong. I have to stop myself just outside the clinic, lest I am committed instead of him. Scrabble I can at least concentrate on.

~Jason POV~

He's bang on time of couuuurse. And bangin' on time! Heh heh. Stands outside the door until exactly 4. Which is even. But uneven is good and even is bad. Bumpy! Bumps in the night and on the head. Bobs the handle one, two, three. Awww. Time ta do therapy by numbers!

I fuckin' HATE HATE HATE therapy but this isn't for me but for Timmy so that's alright. Mm. Maybe. He's taller but still not tall because I am huuuuge. And wide. Like a wall. Thick as bricks, cept, I'm not. Dick knows. Ask him. It's wrong but I feel kinda twitchy.

"Hi." I say, and run Lexie Luthor vrooom up and down my forearm, squirm at the tickle of plastic tyre tracks- I like tyres "Welcome to my humble abooode. Cat strokin' and shark pits optional. I'd put the kettle on but they took it cos I used the wires n stuff to construct a taser and it looks kinda phallic too but I'm pretty sure it was the electricity bit they didn't like." I tap my chin, 3 times, 3 "although they don' like vulgarity an' shit neither. I don' like sex anymore, d'you know? Never did. Anyway. Gotta light?"

He stands and bleaches and makes my friggin' WALL which is WHITE look glowy n' yellow. Get some SUN, man, geez. I hop two maaassive steps back cos it's Prime Time, GEDDIT, n' sit down zen styley in front of the Scrabble board. Words are more fun on plastic!

"There's no B tiles cos I ate them all." they tasted like shit but I HATE B's so it was fine, but they pumped my stomach for them which hurt but at least they're gone now, and am I nervous? Naaaaaaaah ok maybe a bit. I bounce a bit on my ass and look at his nose n'eyebrows n'chin but not his eyes "D'ya like what I did ta the place?"

I dipped the tyres in paint, green! An' ran it all over the walls and even made a little tiny splodge of a cat an' a egg an' a duck with Dickie's hat on and the duck sitting on the egg cos it made me feel naaaaughty. Fuck I miss being naughty.

"Okie dokie Timbo, here be the rules, yar" I love pirates "no rude words. No big words. No foreign shite unless it's Spanish cos I know Spanish, hombre heeeermano. No connectives! And no names unless it's mine because my name is the pinaccle of excellence. Kay?"

I go first because I'm older. Age before beauty, baby!

CAR. I stick the tiles on as straight as I can for him, which is odd cos he's bent and smells like sex and Damo but I won't mention that cos then he'll leave and not come back, and I'd like him not to. I trundle Luthor up n' down n' around my knees n' realise I'm in my boxers. My Hulk ones. Heh.

~Tim POV~

The receptionist looks a little out of sorts upon my entry to Jason's facility. I soon see why. There are thin parallel lines running over the walls, and occasionally over the ceiling. It is approximately an inch or so in width. Oh no. Apparently allowing Jason a car was a mistake - but I suppose that in actuality, the person to be blamed is the fool who allowed him anywhere near a luminescent green paint pot. They run in a miscellany, decorating the walls with a psuedo-wall paper. I almost feel sympathy for those who are going to end up clearing this mess up.

It is then very uncanny to enter Jason's room to find it virtually spotless. One of his carers had informed me that he had spent the enire afternoon cleaning, which was very abnormal. She also mentioned that the last time he had attempted to clean anything was approximately 9 months ago. That does not surprise me in the slightest. Even when he was living in the Manor, his room always looked as though a small version of Hiroshima had hit it. He talks and babbles at me as I enter. It is as though he is struck by an adolescent bout of nerves, although at this point, I think he's about 30. Something along those lines.

I do not fail to note the number of times he taps his chin. The paces that he takes. It might be over-analysis on my part, but he could be doing it to attempt to create an atmosphere of comfort? It is probably insane on my part to make such a selfish assumption, given Jason is supposedly completely crazy. I, however, am disinclined to believe he is as mad has he professes to be. I am sure that it is more to with relinquishing responsibilities. Although, as with everyone related, or in association to Bruce, it will come with a bucketload of childhood trauma with it.

"Hey Jason," I say after a bit of hesitation. He keeps on talking about eating scrabble pieces. 'B' pieces. Two words that he can never spell on the board. Batman. And Crowbar. I can imagine how, then, eating the pieces would make sense in his mind. "Very impressive" I incline my head to the green lines on the wall. It certainly brightens the place up.

A very, very small voice in the back of my head notices the pleasant feeling of achievement that is spreading in the back of my cranium upon realisation that he liked the car I chose. I ignore Jason's state of undress, and seat myself opposite him, kneeling in a fashion that has become normal to me. He explains the rules, and our game begins.

I am not imagining things. He is placing the tiles entirely perpendicular to the board, and straight relative to each other.

It's my turn next.

PAINT. Because he has decided to 'redecorate' his home.

~Jason POV~

I'm a mouse. I hate cheese so it's not that way, but I'm a mouse, a labrat, but a very special mouse. They think they're watchin' me but I'm watchin' them. I do what I like when I like, cos I choose to do as they say. S'all bout choice, choice, choice.

When people tippy toe on my Scrabble scribble board they enter MY world. The mindless Two Face tile chaos. Awwwwwww man I'm gonna have one of those moments. They think they're teachin' me but I'm teachin' them. Dick and Damo didn' geddit. They think s'just talkin' through the madman's medium. It ain't. You gonna geddit, Duckie?

I upturn the bag n' let the tiles raiiiin down like men on my fingers n' the floor. Fingers. Timmy's fingers are pink. Scrub a dub dub, three Bats in a tub, who do ye think they beeeeeee...Duckie would be the candlestick maker. I'd be the butcher! Heh. Dickie can be the tub. I move the tiles into lil' Toblerone rows. I miss chocolate.

Here comes the moment...

"Order an' chaos...they're illusions, y'know. They don' matter, s'just how you arrange the pieces on th'board. Don' matter how you put em, they're still there even if they're straight or bent or bi."I grin at the flit o' surprise in his pretty face "When you stop trying t'make it make sense, it'll start to."

I tug my licks (cow, cowl!) up into devil's horns cos it looks cool an' move the first sensical ones into place: MOO

~Tim POV~

Jason talks. I listen. There seems to be a pattern emerging here. It is probably unwise to take advice from someone who has to be retained inside a psychiatric facility, but his words certainly make a lot more sense than some of the components of life outside these walls. I watch the tiles being rearranged to some alternative formation out of the chaos, and do not say anything.

LAPTOP.

It is almost as though he is an Alzheimer's patient, who amongst the dreamlike existence they lead, has clawed their way back to lucidity, holding on to one thought that they wish to express through sheer force of will. It is fairly admirable to do. Or is it more likely that the lucidity is a gem that has been stumbled upon? Is it sheer chance, or by design?

The tiles serve as a thank you for the gift. Although the cigarettes would probably be more welcome. I should potentially talk to the staff about that one. They are trying to preserve his health (both internal and external) by keeping him away from lighters and nicotine, but the likelihood is that the cravings propagate any madness that he feels, and that by now, having smoked for as long as Jason has, any irreversible damage to his liver, kidney and lungs will have already been done.

I await his next move with anticipation. I wonder whether this will be meaningful or random? It seems about as spontaneous as the flip of a coin.

~Jason POV~

Thing about ordered chaos is, even the rules ain't rules. You can change em aaaaaaanytime. I was gonna spell out D A M I A N son of the bat omen moutacheod supervillian pep squad...cept that's too long.

Yeah laptop. Cos I'm nice. But he's nice TOO. He's just gotta remember it.

'FLOWERS'

~Tim POV~

Flowers. So he noticed whom I have been visiting. It seemed appropriate to bring flowers, after neglecting duty so long. And Dick will like them when he wakes up, or at least I hope. I got as many colours as possible, with the circus in mind. Also, excess colours can aid progress to the cognitive catchup that comatose patients go through.

I pause before my next word. It seems stupid to be worried about revealing something to Jason, but simletaneously, as if the utmost caution should be used. He could tell anyone in the world. But the irony would be, who in the world would he have to tell? Dick? Damian? That's about it.

METAHUMAN. It's not science. So I hope it plays by the rules.

~Jason POV~

I hummmmm. Damo brings me his cat sometimes and she taught me the hummm. It's a car engine an' a heartbeat an' a rhyme. Metafuckers. Hate em. Hate em ALL. I hate a lotta stuff. Superboy...eeeeh, he was ok. Asscheeks too perky if ya ask me.

All hail the Luthormobile! I pedal it up over the curve of Timmy's knee an' resist the urge to make vrrrrrrrm noises. Use the spare hand ta spell out the new word without lookin'. I'm ambidextrous! Hurrah and tan tan tara for me.

REGRET

Which when scrambled like an egg spells GREET R. But I ain't mentionin' that, am I. Nope.

~Tim POV~

I stop to think. Regret. What next? Am I supposed to be abiding by the rules, or not? He runs his little car over my right knee, and although I dislike the sensation, I do not attempt to stop him. Because by now, it is fairly obvious, that Jason is a rather unstoppable force. In the same manner that chaos is.

What is it that I am regretting? Leaving Gotham? Doing things wrong? Abandoning family? I am not sure which I regret the most.

Thinking about Conner makes me start to fidget. I line up 6 random letters in a row, off the board, and begin to make a 6 by 6 grid, with equal spacing. This begins to expand, as I think, toying with two or three words to play with.

I finally decide on the one I want.

FAILURE.

~Jason POV~

Oooook this is gettin' really fuckin' emo now. See I know teeny bopper syntax shite! Aw man, s'dinner time soon. I'm hungry. An' tired. Naptime? I kinda love naptime. I dream o' cars n' the grand canyon. An before.

Oops. Used up my turn without noticing 'HOTDOG' an' dont you DARE call me a fatass or wide load cos it is all muscle, baby, yeah. The only pot on my belly is hotpot. I'm a truck. Vrrrrrrm!

"I want a truck next." in a bow. And I break the rules cos I like breakin' stuff and go again 'FORWARD'

"Will Dick get fixed?" just so I know whether I gotta go mad for real again.

~Tim POV~

"Alright." I will get him a truck next time. Because there is going to be a next time. I decide that now, and I will stick to it.

I quirk an eyebrow at the mention of Hotdogs. Perhaps that should be his present next time. I will have to file that away for later. Perhaps I could bring him some real food? I am sure that he is well fed here, given it is one of the nicer Gothamite facilities, but it doesn't mean they are given normal food. Nothing along the lines of anything bad for the health of the patient, I would imagine.

"Dick will heal. And he will wake up. "I don't know if the conviction comes from me needing to believe it, or having faith in my medical knowledge. In all likelihood, it is the latter. "It just may take some time. And he'll need time to learn how to walk again. But his personality will remain unchanged. " I pause, and eyeball the word 'Forward'. "His vitals improve daily. "

~Jason POV~

Yeah I knew that. Ain't news. Cos o' course Dickie will be fine. Jus'...seein' him like that, all still and non-flippy like a fish not a dolphin- s'wrong. I yaaaaawn one o' those lion yawns with the crack-y jaw and the bared teeth. Drugs keep me tick tick ticking on schedule. Make me thick. Thick like Dick. It makes me sick. I like to lick. Rhyme is fun.

I'm lazy an' don' feel like crawling into that stupid lumpy bed anyway, so I stretch my legs n' arms out an' up and go nnnnnnngh. Sometimes I feel like a giant in a lil itty bitty smurf village. I knead a fist against the edge of my eyes. Fuckin' baby. I miss bein' a baby. I remember it. Where'd my pride go, huh? Got blown up with the rest me, siree...

"Thank you, come again..." I mutter in that dumb Simpsons racist Indian guy voice, n' smile "doors always open. Cept it ain't. If ya got a stick or two of dy-nee-mite, s'always open. But you gotta go now. S'naptime. I'm tired."

...I'm forgettin' something...

OH YEAH!

"Here." I murfle through a yawn, grope around in my Hulk boxers (ya wouldn't like me when I'm angry, rar!) for the product of, like, a whooole afternoon "This is Doc Quack."

S'a duck. I knooow, again, right? But this is a SPECIAL duckie. I carved it outta soap. With the sharp end o' a toothbrush. Took a fuckin' age!

"For the car, osy a believe in all that tete-a-tete shite." I mutter, rub my neck "Yeah I know French, le horreur! But hey, listen, s'for your hands. Ya gotta treat Doc like a la-dey, n' only use her once every trip. M'serious! I'll come shave your egghead if ya don't!"

He doesn' take it, so I shrug n' put it on the Scrabbley board, n' lie back on the hard hard floor "Order ain't order if it's rulin' ya, Duckie. 'Member that."

I close my eyes like sleep, not death. Not this time, Clownface "You sh...could...can stay yanno. If y'like." S'warm, n' someone weaves Spidey over me "Would be nice."

~tbc~


	14. Chapter 14

~Prodigal Son, 14~

~Tim POV~

Jason sleeps on the floor, and I am not going to allow him to sleep without some form of covering. I reach for his duvet - Spiderman? - and drape it across his ridiculously large form. I place the pillow next to him, just in case he wakes up, and doesn't feel the desire to get up. "I'll come back soon," I find myself saying, as I lean to pick up the soap duck. And I will. It was a relief to be here, for whatever reason. Perhaps it would be prudent to repeat such an afternoon at some point in the future. With a truck, and some hot dogs.

I check my watch. I had asked the nurses to start the machines up for Colin again at 6. I close Jason's door quietly as I leave. I tell the ladies at the reception that he is asleep as per his schedule, and then leave the building. The walk back to the Phoenix Institute refreshes me. I inhale the dank, Gotham air, and let the gloom descend. It doesn't bother me. Although I do miss Japan's humidity - that at least keeps the day and night warm.

The soap is still in my pocket. It is a good carving for someone who is supposedly mentally unstable. Clearly shaking limbs are not included in his list of symptoms. I put rubber gloves on upon my entry back into the institute. It is more for my benefit, than anyone elses. At least that will prevent the skin from itching as badly as it does, and protect it from any potential pathogens, for a little while at least. The feel of the latex almost makes my hands in themselves, feel clean. Which is good enough.

If asked, I can always explain about handling the venom and anti-venom. It is only partially a lie.

Damian is still in Colin's room when I return. My desk is untouched, aside from the removal of the coffee mug. I am grateful that someone had the foresight to do it prior to anything spilling across the metal. When I finally re-enter Colin's abode in favour of hooking him up once again to the machines which will circulate his blood efficiently, and remove any venom, Damian asks where I have been. There is no compulsion to lie, so I inform him that I visited Jason.

Silence falls, and I wait for some comment, or motive questioning, which doesn't come. It is ten minutes later when the quiet is broken, by a ludicrously cheery tone on Damian's cell. Or at least I assume it's Damian's, because its not mine.

~Damian POV~

With Jason...?

I am not entirely sure how I should feel about that. It...why? Who instigated such a thing? Well, it must have been Jason. Naturally. He has this inexplicable talent for getting precisely what he wants, now. It is simply impossible to refuse him anything. Nonetheless...for Timothy to actually visit him...considering their history...

I shake my head despairingly. The conundrum twists. The plot thickens. And my head now hurts.

It is the revelation that Timothy seems better, that informs me, surprisingly, that he had been worse. The...incidents...of previous days have apparently affected him. Good. I maintain no delusion that...what happened...the...

Thank ALLAH. My phone. No, wait. Oh. Shit. Fuck. That ringtone. For a moment, when I had heard the cheery tone, my heart had lifted. Just for a second, I thought it would be Dick's ridiculous signature. But no. It is worse. Far, far worse. Timothy stares at me curiously, or as curiously as his cold bastard facade can muster.

I fumble with the appliance and press it tightly to my ear, moving towards the exit as I do so "Wayne speaking."

"Hey D! Kinda a weird way to greet an old buddy, huh?" Superboy chuckles, that deep noise that sings of rocking chairs and orchards "How's Dick doing? Any better?"

Superboy and myself have a rather...interesting history of aquaitance. Which, ironically, began when he had one too many ciders on a Teen Titans 'bar crawl', turned up swaying jubilantly at the Tower's panoramic window, and proceeded to...acost...me until he comprehended that I was a head too short and several fractions too masculine to be Tim Drake.

Whereupon, he settled into a morose stupor and promptly lectured me on just how much Drake was his BESTEST BUDDY IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD and I JUST WANNA TELL HIM I LOVE HIM AND HE'S GREAT AND COME BACK, Y'KNOW?

No. I did not 'y'know', and I told him such. Nonetheless, from his sheepish apology the next day blossomed a...relationship of sorts. I believe the term is 'buddy'. Which quickly became 'fuck-buddy' upon the advent of my seventeenth year, on New Years Eve. Punch and Baileys have much to answer for.

Now: I do not know what to feel. Something curls and stings in my belly. A heaviness. It is difficult to define.

"-is it true? Is he really back, D? May I see him? Where is he?"

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. How can I, in all good conscience, refuse him this? Besides, there is always the possibility- Drake has retreated once more into his Fortress of Ice, but-

"Phoenix Square. Seven O clock." I clarify, and hang up. Conner cannot understand digital time.

...this is a terrible idea. Is it not.

~Tim POV~

I must admit that I wish to know to whom Damian is talking. They speak as though they are old friends. But I do not know enough about Damian to even narrow it down to four or five different people. I barely knew that Damian had one friend in Colin. So much has happened in the 9 years I chose to live away from Gotham, that I am not privy to. But it is his business, and his problem. Whatever this person wants, a meeting has been set up in Phoenix square. Damian probably wants to remain nearby to Colin whilst his treatment is ongoing. I wonder if it is something to do with the company? Business?

Time passes. I take a few calls regarding my company which I have been putting off. It is strange to speak the language that I considered close to a mother tongue when surrounded by English. Fortunately, unlike in America, there is no necessity to talk loudly.

According to the CFO, our stock levels are increasing. It is all very mundane. I listen obligingly, and inform the man on the other end of the line of which transactions to go ahead. For whatever reason, this afternoon is a bombardment of calls.

From research, from one of my patients in the Tokyo branch. One of the nurses from the hospital keeping me updated on the progress of Dick. Before I am aware, it is close to 7pm, and I seat myself back in the chair just as Damian approaches me. Apparently I am privy to this rendezvous in the square. What exciting person are we going to see, I wonder?

There is no one there, in the square, when I reach it. Damian looks almost as though he is apprehensive, although it is difficult to tell. There is a noise of parting winds, and I glance up. Colour drains from my face, and I grip the soap Duck in my pocket more tightly than I want to.

Conner.

Damian has me out here to see Conner.

~Tim POV~

This was a terrible, terrible, terrible idea. And likely a gargantuan mistake. I do not know what I had expected of Timothy. Shock, perhaps. But not what is clearly unadulterated terror.

The more vindictive element in my wonders openly at the root of such a reaction. They had been friends, correct? More than friends, per my observations. I had seen them together. Long ago, the Tim Drake with short, soft, spiked hair like shorn grass and an emerald cape. Touching. Superboy, touching. Brushes. Touches. A dance.

Something becomes tight and uncomfortable in my chest. Not heat, but cold. Bitter, vertigo pressure. The bow of his lips bleeding against my teeth. The curve of my thigh between his legs. Sweat and the jerk of his chin and the widening of his eyes as he- Tim.

The sickness twists and pervades like poison.

"...buddy? You're, uh, kinda freaking me out a little here. Why the happy face? Sale on leather?"

Timothy says, and does, nothing. How much must this entity mean, I wonder, to ilicit such a reaction. Hmph. Superboy does not have the mental or physical faculties to make Drake SQUIRM like I did.

...what?

"...could use a haircut. Loving the gloves, by the by, going for the Mickey Mouse look, are we? Damn, it's good to see you! Even with that stupid bowl on your head."

Am I...? I cannot be.

"Oh, seriously, if you won't do it then I will."

Superboy bounds forward, arms outstretched. And that, is when things began to go terribly wrong.

Conner. It has been two years since I last saw him, and as per usual, nothing at all has changed. Not even the slightest difference in the way he moves, or talks. How he addresses me. The open body language. Innocent. That of one who is mentally a child. I can't remember how many years old he is now technically. 15? Certainly not anywhere near Damian or I.

Two years have changed me more than he would know. Conner had been the only one who had been able to visit due to just how fast he could fly. Even Bart gets tired. Got. Got tired. Past tense. All of this is in the past. It was only from Conner's sheer obstinacy that I ended up seeing him at all.

At first he helped.

Then was more of a hindrance.

And finally the source of all of the pain I kept hidden.

He moves towards me, undoubtedly aiming for an embrace. I am frozen up until the point he is less than a foot away. Then I jerk backwards, duck, and strike him. It would not hurt a meta - probably slightly tingle - to be struck in a nerve bundle. But it was just impulse. I can't help feeling a little horrified by my actions. Conner is here and.. what can I feel? What is best? What am I allowed? What can I allow?

He moves away, hurt. I still haven't said anything. Conner was always so sensitive like a child. I have to force the schooled expression onto my face. It is sick, and twisted, and wrong. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't see me like this. I shove my hands in my pockets in shame, and turn, retreating back to the Institute without a word. The duck is comforting. I want to wash my hands, but I don't. I want to rearrange the desk, but I don't.

All I do is hide. Like the pathetic coward that I am. Veiled in the darkness of a curtain, but in such a fashion that I can still see the world beyond. Damian and Conner are much closer than I thought, evidently, as Conner seeks him for comfort.

They leave together, and all I am left with is intense shame. Conner is important enough for Damian to leave Colin.

What has happened in my absence? The world has turned upside down!

~Damian POV~

Conner is, naturally, distraught.

I must admit, even though I find his neediness and fragility somewhat tiresome, I am...fond of the giant. He is good. He is kind. He has excellenet pectorals. And he did not deserve to be treated like that. No matter how emotionally cold Drake has become, he should have at least remained civil.

Although...perhaps the shock was too great. Perhaps I misjudged. Perhaps I-

"...just don't get it. We used to be best buds. I mean...I only wanted to..."

I signal to the barman to fetch another appletini. Do NOT ask. Do not. I pat Superboy firmly on the shoulder, allow my fingers to curl around the enormous hillock of his shoulder "Do not be too hard on yourself, Kon-El. He is...somewhat stressed at the moment. And it has been a long time."

Yes, it has. Nine years. I yearn for the simplicity of that time. Then, nothing I did felt...wrong. Now? Whatever course I take, it cannot be the right one. An hour passes in companionable moroseness. Eventually, the topic shifts to Star City, and the new litter of kittens born just last week on the Kent farm, and whether I would like to drop by sometime and adopt a few. Said, with a knowing twinkle in his bright eyes, because he knows full well I shall be unable to choose, and adopt them all. I find myself almost...relaxing. Smiling, a little. His palms are a good, heavy weight against my lower back. As he grows more and more intoxicated, they fumble lower and lower. I do not comment.

It is that cold, faux-laugh that alerts me to his presence.

I catch the tail of a smirk, the creamy expanse of an exposed collarbone and the flutter of a white shirt in the breeze, as the bar door swings heavily shut behind Drake, and a tall, smooth-cheeked, fudge-eyed African American with a chiselled jaw and a substantial bulge in his pants. I could have sworn those lidded eyes had flitted, just for a moment, significantly towards me.

"Should I...?" Superboy murmurs, swallowing and tottering on his stool, and I shake my head.

"No, Conner. Go back to your hotel room, I will call you later, alright?"

"Mmm...kay. Take care of him, Dee."

Oh, I am going to take CARE of Timothy Drake, you can be absolutely sure of that.

When I find him, it is evidently post-coitus. And I perceive nothing but skin and sweat and RED. A thick, heady haze of it that suffocates me. I am vaguely aware of my own hands, digging into the softness of pale, overly moisturised skin. Soft like a peach. Bruises like a peach. My moving. The chocolate coloured nose breaking like a dam beneath my boot. A leaden weight dragging me like the tide, back, back, as I head for the nearest patch of darkness.

What am I doing?

I slam him up against the stark cherry red of brick, which spatters a film of dust into his sticky hair, and his toes barely brush the filthy wet cement of the alleyway as I ram my right thigh up between his legs, leaving him effectively scissored as though awaiting some mutated spanking, the entirety of his weight crushing DELICIOUSLY and making my hamstring sing and spasm with the effort-

"Mine mine mine mine mine mine MINE-"

And then my tongue is practically down his throat as I penetrate his mouth so violently, that I almost expect to fall right through his entire surprised FACE. Fuck, I want to make him squirm and scream and writhe and purr my name until his throat is hoarse, want to break him into a million trembling pieces then EAT them. I want to suck him till his salt is dry.

And I think I may be telling him all this. Think of dark hands where MY hands have been, where they HAVEN'T been, in the creamy whorles beneath the Sacred Line, and I let out a strangled snarl, grab a fist of that fine ALREADYWETFUCK hair and yank, hand, feel his scalp stretch and give, then drag the fingernails of my other hand across the ridge of his tailbone, hard, slide my palm over the ridge of his ridiculously square, flat arse and SQUEEZE until my knuckles are bloodless.

The world spins out of control. At some point, my knees buckles and I find my nose pressed against the drying stickiness marring the planes of his stomach. I bite and tear at the skin until the marks of my teeth form a Warning Light circle around the offence, then suck and lick and swallow until it is as raw and pink and clean as his hands.

What. Am. I. Doing.

I tumble back onto the damp ground, chest heaving so fast I believe I may be close to hyperventilating, and hiss up through that haze of dwindling crimson "What...the FUCK...do you think you are doing?"

I think I may be speaking to both of us.

~Tim POV~

Damian and Conner leave. And I am free to roam in the Institute until the procedure is complete. Again, a success, and I leave soon after. Return to the Draper apartment, wash, change, and head straight out of the door. There is no way that I am going to contend with everything that has happened today and previously without some form of liquid confidence. Or possibly without rubbing my hands to the point that there are only muscles left.

Instead, I decide to head out for a drink. A downtown bar. Not too sleazy, not too bad. One bear becomes two. Four becomes eight. And I forget, in my need to get some alcohol in my stomach, that I have a severe intolerance for beer, as I am usually a spirit drinker.

It is evident first when I move up to go to the bathroom, to find myself stumbling straight into someone. The someone, who, (my inebriate brain supplies) is tall, dark and handsome) helps me along, and buys me a drink. I am very disappointed he is not Arabian, but it does not matter. The reason for that thought does not cross my mind either. Up until the point where an arm is placed around my waist, and I am playing pool for whatever reason (which I am completely useless at, due to the lack of normal aim), the night is clear as crystal.

Half an hour after the pool game has ended, and I am in somebody's lap. Things are blurring around the edges. Who's thighs am I seated on? I find myself not caring, reaching greedily for the nearest available alcoholic source.

Later still, we move to leave the bar. I still don't know who I am with. Just that he is tall, and that I didn't ask for a name. I sweep the bar with a quick glance as we are leaving, only to find a familiar looking pair of silhouettes against the lighter counter, with all of the sacred liquid behind it. I watch the figures recede into the darkness of the bar, sure that I had seen almond shaped eyes glaring. But I think at this stage it is more likely to be wishful thinking.

The blurriest part of my evening takes place halfway down an alley. By the time I am aware of myself again, my back hurts from being indented by the wall (I'm vaguely aware of a trickle of hot liquid, but it dries quickly. Faster than the other bodily fluid which is resting on my front. I wrinkle my nose, but given it is hard to stand, and this guy appears to be keeping me up, I don't complain for once.

There is a sudden pressure on the back of my neck, and I tense. Said pressure jerks me away from the person I just fucked, whilst the guy in question goes down. Huh. Apparently I have a jealous stalker. I wince at the ferocity with which I am pretty much thrown into a brick wall. And then have a thigh in between mine.

It is fairly cold without any form of shirt. But this heats me up fast. The world swims into focus, and I concentrate long enough to see Damian Wayne in front of me, eyes ablaze with fury, through thick, dark lashes. I barely have time to read anything in his expression, before my mouth is savagely assaulted.

Damian is muttering possessively, and I don't think I've ever seen anyone so possessed (or as fucking hot in a tank top) in my life.

Teeth and tongues clash violently. It is so deliciously brutal that I find warmth spreading throughout my body. I grasp desperately for skin, finding an arm after a little bit of tactile exploration, gripping vainly at the thin shirt with my other hand. I can feel my fingernails digging into skin. There's blood in my mouth, and its is bringing my closer and closer to lucidity.

I begin to fight. Struggle against the onslaught of his tongue, pushing back for dominance. He is younger and stronger than me, and I can feel it in the friction of his thigh pressed hard against me, enough to make me squirm. My erratic heartbeat is desperately trying to keep up with small, stolen breaths and –oh God – it almost stops beating as strong fingers grope hard.

Fuck. FUCK. I want him flush against me so badly it hurts. I shakily draw in a breath as he drops to his knees. The pain in my head throbs absently, but it is overtaken by the roar of life running through my veins.

The first bite makes me cry out. God, he is… vicious and possessively marking me, and it is the most erotic display I could have imagined (and imagine, I have). He is torturously close to the edge of my jeans, which I want desperately to be rid of.

I can't think. Can't concentrate. I'm gripping against the bricks, scratching at them to keep me from falling at the .. fuck, that callous tongue is against my now sensitive stomach and shudders shoot through every nerve I own. I want it in my mouth again. I want to taste every inch of him I can get my hands on. I want to observe every muscle twitch and manipulate his control from steel grip-like fingers.

He is on the floor, and I follow, pushing his shoulders to the floor hard as my present state can muster, and straddling toned hips. The dip of his pelvis is more exciting than the angry words, but both are fuel on the fire. The words are laced with poison, but it does not deter me. Instead, I slide my torso down, to press against him, letting my weight bear down on him.

My face rests right beside the shell of his left ear, controlling every breath I take, and exhaling hot air right next to the lobe. " I think," I murmur, my lips closing in "I am going to have a lot of fun with the fucking tease against me..." My tongue darts out to lick lightly at the underside of the lob, moving just enough so that my pelvis grazes his. Fucking hell, I want his trousers gone as well. "What do you say, Damian? "

I smirk. My fingers trail up from his right kneecap to the inside of his thigh, resting half a handspan away from his navel. I scrape my nails along the flesh just under the shirt. I don't restrain his hands yet – he is free to grip where he likes. It appears tonight is my lucky night. Thank God for alcohol, and the ability to take away any inhibition.

I use my free hand to push up a little, and rock against him slowly, using my weight advantage for maximum friction. "You know" I say lightly, adjusting my position a little "I think the shirt has to go. It's not fair if I'm the only one missing that particular item of clothing" My face is just in front of his. "Would you prefer somewhere more private? Or is here just fine?"

~tbc~


	15. Chapter 15

~Prodigal Son, 14~

~Tim POV~

Jason sleeps on the floor, and I am not going to allow him to sleep without some form of covering. I reach for his duvet - Spiderman? - and drape it across his ridiculously large form. I place the pillow next to him, just in case he wakes up, and doesn't feel the desire to get up. "I'll come back soon," I find myself saying, as I lean to pick up the soap duck. And I will. It was a relief to be here, for whatever reason. Perhaps it would be prudent to repeat such an afternoon at some point in the future. With a truck, and some hot dogs.

I check my watch. I had asked the nurses to start the machines up for Colin again at 6. I close Jason's door quietly as I leave. I tell the ladies at the reception that he is asleep as per his schedule, and then leave the building. The walk back to the Phoenix Institute refreshes me. I inhale the dank, Gotham air, and let the gloom descend. It doesn't bother me. Although I do miss Japan's humidity - that at least keeps the day and night warm.

The soap is still in my pocket. It is a good carving for someone who is supposedly mentally unstable. Clearly shaking limbs are not included in his list of symptoms. I put rubber gloves on upon my entry back into the institute. It is more for my benefit, than anyone elses. At least that will prevent the skin from itching as badly as it does, and protect it from any potential pathogens, for a little while at least. The feel of the latex almost makes my hands in themselves, feel clean. Which is good enough.

If asked, I can always explain about handling the venom and anti-venom. It is only partially a lie.

Damian is still in Colin's room when I return. My desk is untouched, aside from the removal of the coffee mug. I am grateful that someone had the foresight to do it prior to anything spilling across the metal. When I finally re-enter Colin's abode in favour of hooking him up once again to the machines which will circulate his blood efficiently, and remove any venom, Damian asks where I have been. There is no compulsion to lie, so I inform him that I visited Jason.

Silence falls, and I wait for some comment, or motive questioning, which doesn't come. It is ten minutes later when the quiet is broken, by a ludicrously cheery tone on Damian's cell. Or at least I assume it's Damian's, because its not mine.

~Damian POV~

With Jason...?

I am not entirely sure how I should feel about that. It...why? Who instigated such a thing? Well, it must have been Jason. Naturally. He has this inexplicable talent for getting precisely what he wants, now. It is simply impossible to refuse him anything. Nonetheless...for Timothy to actually visit him...considering their history...

I shake my head despairingly. The conundrum twists. The plot thickens. And my head now hurts.

It is the revelation that Timothy seems better, that informs me, surprisingly, that he had been worse. The...incidents...of previous days have apparently affected him. Good. I maintain no delusion that...what happened...the...

Thank ALLAH. My phone. No, wait. Oh. Shit. Fuck. That ringtone. For a moment, when I had heard the cheery tone, my heart had lifted. Just for a second, I thought it would be Dick's ridiculous signature. But no. It is worse. Far, far worse. Timothy stares at me curiously, or as curiously as his cold bastard facade can muster.

I fumble with the appliance and press it tightly to my ear, moving towards the exit as I do so "Wayne speaking."

"Hey D! Kinda a weird way to greet an old buddy, huh?" Superboy chuckles, that deep noise that sings of rocking chairs and orchards "How's Dick doing? Any better?"

Superboy and myself have a rather...interesting history of aquaitance. Which, ironically, began when he had one too many ciders on a Teen Titans 'bar crawl', turned up swaying jubilantly at the Tower's panoramic window, and proceeded to...acost...me until he comprehended that I was a head too short and several fractions too masculine to be Tim Drake.

Whereupon, he settled into a morose stupor and promptly lectured me on just how much Drake was his BESTEST BUDDY IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD and I JUST WANNA TELL HIM I LOVE HIM AND HE'S GREAT AND COME BACK, Y'KNOW?

No. I did not 'y'know', and I told him such. Nonetheless, from his sheepish apology the next day blossomed a...relationship of sorts. I believe the term is 'buddy'. Which quickly became 'fuck-buddy' upon the advent of my seventeenth year, on New Years Eve. Punch and Baileys have much to answer for.

Now: I do not know what to feel. Something curls and stings in my belly. A heaviness. It is difficult to define.

"-is it true? Is he really back, D? May I see him? Where is he?"

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. How can I, in all good conscience, refuse him this? Besides, there is always the possibility- Drake has retreated once more into his Fortress of Ice, but-

"Phoenix Square. Seven O clock." I clarify, and hang up. Conner cannot understand digital time.

...this is a terrible idea. Is it not.

~Tim POV~

I must admit that I wish to know to whom Damian is talking. They speak as though they are old friends. But I do not know enough about Damian to even narrow it down to four or five different people. I barely knew that Damian had one friend in Colin. So much has happened in the 9 years I chose to live away from Gotham, that I am not privy to. But it is his business, and his problem. Whatever this person wants, a meeting has been set up in Phoenix square. Damian probably wants to remain nearby to Colin whilst his treatment is ongoing. I wonder if it is something to do with the company? Business?

Time passes. I take a few calls regarding my company which I have been putting off. It is strange to speak the language that I considered close to a mother tongue when surrounded by English. Fortunately, unlike in America, there is no necessity to talk loudly.

According to the CFO, our stock levels are increasing. It is all very mundane. I listen obligingly, and inform the man on the other end of the line of which transactions to go ahead. For whatever reason, this afternoon is a bombardment of calls.

From research, from one of my patients in the Tokyo branch. One of the nurses from the hospital keeping me updated on the progress of Dick. Before I am aware, it is close to 7pm, and I seat myself back in the chair just as Damian approaches me. Apparently I am privy to this rendezvous in the square. What exciting person are we going to see, I wonder?

There is no one there, in the square, when I reach it. Damian looks almost as though he is apprehensive, although it is difficult to tell. There is a noise of parting winds, and I glance up. Colour drains from my face, and I grip the soap Duck in my pocket more tightly than I want to.

Conner.

Damian has me out here to see Conner.

~Tim POV~

This was a terrible, terrible, terrible idea. And likely a gargantuan mistake. I do not know what I had expected of Timothy. Shock, perhaps. But not what is clearly unadulterated terror.

The more vindictive element in my wonders openly at the root of such a reaction. They had been friends, correct? More than friends, per my observations. I had seen them together. Long ago, the Tim Drake with short, soft, spiked hair like shorn grass and an emerald cape. Touching. Superboy, touching. Brushes. Touches. A dance.

Something becomes tight and uncomfortable in my chest. Not heat, but cold. Bitter, vertigo pressure. The bow of his lips bleeding against my teeth. The curve of my thigh between his legs. Sweat and the jerk of his chin and the widening of his eyes as he- Tim.

The sickness twists and pervades like poison.

"...buddy? You're, uh, kinda freaking me out a little here. Why the happy face? Sale on leather?"

Timothy says, and does, nothing. How much must this entity mean, I wonder, to ilicit such a reaction. Hmph. Superboy does not have the mental or physical faculties to make Drake SQUIRM like I did.

...what?

"...could use a haircut. Loving the gloves, by the by, going for the Mickey Mouse look, are we? Damn, it's good to see you! Even with that stupid bowl on your head."

Am I...? I cannot be.

"Oh, seriously, if you won't do it then I will."

Superboy bounds forward, arms outstretched. And that, is when things began to go terribly wrong.

Conner. It has been two years since I last saw him, and as per usual, nothing at all has changed. Not even the slightest difference in the way he moves, or talks. How he addresses me. The open body language. Innocent. That of one who is mentally a child. I can't remember how many years old he is now technically. 15? Certainly not anywhere near Damian or I.

Two years have changed me more than he would know. Conner had been the only one who had been able to visit due to just how fast he could fly. Even Bart gets tired. Got. Got tired. Past tense. All of this is in the past. It was only from Conner's sheer obstinacy that I ended up seeing him at all.

At first he helped.

Then was more of a hindrance.

And finally the source of all of the pain I kept hidden.

He moves towards me, undoubtedly aiming for an embrace. I am frozen up until the point he is less than a foot away. Then I jerk backwards, duck, and strike him. It would not hurt a meta - probably slightly tingle - to be struck in a nerve bundle. But it was just impulse. I can't help feeling a little horrified by my actions. Conner is here and.. what can I feel? What is best? What am I allowed? What can I allow?

He moves away, hurt. I still haven't said anything. Conner was always so sensitive like a child. I have to force the schooled expression onto my face. It is sick, and twisted, and wrong. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't see me like this. I shove my hands in my pockets in shame, and turn, retreating back to the Institute without a word. The duck is comforting. I want to wash my hands, but I don't. I want to rearrange the desk, but I don't.

All I do is hide. Like the pathetic coward that I am. Veiled in the darkness of a curtain, but in such a fashion that I can still see the world beyond. Damian and Conner are much closer than I thought, evidently, as Conner seeks him for comfort.

They leave together, and all I am left with is intense shame. Conner is important enough for Damian to leave Colin.

What has happened in my absence? The world has turned upside down!

~Damian POV~

Conner is, naturally, distraught.

I must admit, even though I find his neediness and fragility somewhat tiresome, I am...fond of the giant. He is good. He is kind. He has excellenet pectorals. And he did not deserve to be treated like that. No matter how emotionally cold Drake has become, he should have at least remained civil.

Although...perhaps the shock was too great. Perhaps I misjudged. Perhaps I-

"...just don't get it. We used to be best buds. I mean...I only wanted to..."

I signal to the barman to fetch another appletini. Do NOT ask. Do not. I pat Superboy firmly on the shoulder, allow my fingers to curl around the enormous hillock of his shoulder "Do not be too hard on yourself, Kon-El. He is...somewhat stressed at the moment. And it has been a long time."

Yes, it has. Nine years. I yearn for the simplicity of that time. Then, nothing I did felt...wrong. Now? Whatever course I take, it cannot be the right one. An hour passes in companionable moroseness. Eventually, the topic shifts to Star City, and the new litter of kittens born just last week on the Kent farm, and whether I would like to drop by sometime and adopt a few. Said, with a knowing twinkle in his bright eyes, because he knows full well I shall be unable to choose, and adopt them all. I find myself almost...relaxing. Smiling, a little. His palms are a good, heavy weight against my lower back. As he grows more and more intoxicated, they fumble lower and lower. I do not comment.

It is that cold, faux-laugh that alerts me to his presence.

I catch the tail of a smirk, the creamy expanse of an exposed collarbone and the flutter of a white shirt in the breeze, as the bar door swings heavily shut behind Drake, and a tall, smooth-cheeked, fudge-eyed African American with a chiselled jaw and a substantial bulge in his pants. I could have sworn those lidded eyes had flitted, just for a moment, significantly towards me.

"Should I...?" Superboy murmurs, swallowing and tottering on his stool, and I shake my head.

"No, Conner. Go back to your hotel room, I will call you later, alright?"

"Mmm...kay. Take care of him, Dee."

Oh, I am going to take CARE of Timothy Drake, you can be absolutely sure of that.

When I find him, it is evidently post-coitus. And I perceive nothing but skin and sweat and RED. A thick, heady haze of it that suffocates me. I am vaguely aware of my own hands, digging into the softness of pale, overly moisturised skin. Soft like a peach. Bruises like a peach. My moving. The chocolate coloured nose breaking like a dam beneath my boot. A leaden weight dragging me like the tide, back, back, as I head for the nearest patch of darkness.

What am I doing?

I slam him up against the stark cherry red of brick, which spatters a film of dust into his sticky hair, and his toes barely brush the filthy wet cement of the alleyway as I ram my right thigh up between his legs, leaving him effectively scissored as though awaiting some mutated spanking, the entirety of his weight crushing DELICIOUSLY and making my hamstring sing and spasm with the effort-

"Mine mine mine mine mine mine MINE-"

And then my tongue is practically down his throat as I penetrate his mouth so violently, that I almost expect to fall right through his entire surprised FACE. Fuck, I want to make him squirm and scream and writhe and purr my name until his throat is hoarse, want to break him into a million trembling pieces then EAT them. I want to suck him till his salt is dry.

And I think I may be telling him all this. Think of dark hands where MY hands have been, where they HAVEN'T been, in the creamy whorles beneath the Sacred Line, and I let out a strangled snarl, grab a fist of that fine ALREADYWETFUCK hair and yank, hand, feel his scalp stretch and give, then drag the fingernails of my other hand across the ridge of his tailbone, hard, slide my palm over the ridge of his ridiculously square, flat arse and SQUEEZE until my knuckles are bloodless.

The world spins out of control. At some point, my knees buckles and I find my nose pressed against the drying stickiness marring the planes of his stomach. I bite and tear at the skin until the marks of my teeth form a Warning Light circle around the offence, then suck and lick and swallow until it is as raw and pink and clean as his hands.

What. Am. I. Doing.

I tumble back onto the damp ground, chest heaving so fast I believe I may be close to hyperventilating, and hiss up through that haze of dwindling crimson "What...the FUCK...do you think you are doing?"

I think I may be speaking to both of us.

~Tim POV~

Damian and Conner leave. And I am free to roam in the Institute until the procedure is complete. Again, a success, and I leave soon after. Return to the Draper apartment, wash, change, and head straight out of the door. There is no way that I am going to contend with everything that has happened today and previously without some form of liquid confidence. Or possibly without rubbing my hands to the point that there are only muscles left.

Instead, I decide to head out for a drink. A downtown bar. Not too sleazy, not too bad. One bear becomes two. Four becomes eight. And I forget, in my need to get some alcohol in my stomach, that I have a severe intolerance for beer, as I am usually a spirit drinker.

It is evident first when I move up to go to the bathroom, to find myself stumbling straight into someone. The someone, who, (my inebriate brain supplies) is tall, dark and handsome) helps me along, and buys me a drink. I am very disappointed he is not Arabian, but it does not matter. The reason for that thought does not cross my mind either. Up until the point where an arm is placed around my waist, and I am playing pool for whatever reason (which I am completely useless at, due to the lack of normal aim), the night is clear as crystal.

Half an hour after the pool game has ended, and I am in somebody's lap. Things are blurring around the edges. Who's thighs am I seated on? I find myself not caring, reaching greedily for the nearest available alcoholic source.

Later still, we move to leave the bar. I still don't know who I am with. Just that he is tall, and that I didn't ask for a name. I sweep the bar with a quick glance as we are leaving, only to find a familiar looking pair of silhouettes against the lighter counter, with all of the sacred liquid behind it. I watch the figures recede into the darkness of the bar, sure that I had seen almond shaped eyes glaring. But I think at this stage it is more likely to be wishful thinking.

The blurriest part of my evening takes place halfway down an alley. By the time I am aware of myself again, my back hurts from being indented by the wall (I'm vaguely aware of a trickle of hot liquid, but it dries quickly. Faster than the other bodily fluid which is resting on my front. I wrinkle my nose, but given it is hard to stand, and this guy appears to be keeping me up, I don't complain for once.

There is a sudden pressure on the back of my neck, and I tense. Said pressure jerks me away from the person I just fucked, whilst the guy in question goes down. Huh. Apparently I have a jealous stalker. I wince at the ferocity with which I am pretty much thrown into a brick wall. And then have a thigh in between mine.

It is fairly cold without any form of shirt. But this heats me up fast. The world swims into focus, and I concentrate long enough to see Damian Wayne in front of me, eyes ablaze with fury, through thick, dark lashes. I barely have time to read anything in his expression, before my mouth is savagely assaulted.

Damian is muttering possessively, and I don't think I've ever seen anyone so possessed (or as fucking hot in a tank top) in my life.

Teeth and tongues clash violently. It is so deliciously brutal that I find warmth spreading throughout my body. I grasp desperately for skin, finding an arm after a little bit of tactile exploration, gripping vainly at the thin shirt with my other hand. I can feel my fingernails digging into skin. There's blood in my mouth, and its is bringing my closer and closer to lucidity.

I begin to fight. Struggle against the onslaught of his tongue, pushing back for dominance. He is younger and stronger than me, and I can feel it in the friction of his thigh pressed hard against me, enough to make me squirm. My erratic heartbeat is desperately trying to keep up with small, stolen breaths and –oh God – it almost stops beating as strong fingers grope hard.

Fuck. FUCK. I want him flush against me so badly it hurts. I shakily draw in a breath as he drops to his knees. The pain in my head throbs absently, but it is overtaken by the roar of life running through my veins.

The first bite makes me cry out. God, he is… vicious and possessively marking me, and it is the most erotic display I could have imagined (and imagine, I have). He is torturously close to the edge of my jeans, which I want desperately to be rid of.

I can't think. Can't concentrate. I'm gripping against the bricks, scratching at them to keep me from falling at the .. fuck, that callous tongue is against my now sensitive stomach and shudders shoot through every nerve I own. I want it in my mouth again. I want to taste every inch of him I can get my hands on. I want to observe every muscle twitch and manipulate his control from steel grip-like fingers.

He is on the floor, and I follow, pushing his shoulders to the floor hard as my present state can muster, and straddling toned hips. The dip of his pelvis is more exciting than the angry words, but both are fuel on the fire. The words are laced with poison, but it does not deter me. Instead, I slide my torso down, to press against him, letting my weight bear down on him.

My face rests right beside the shell of his left ear, controlling every breath I take, and exhaling hot air right next to the lobe. " I think," I murmur, my lips closing in "I am going to have a lot of fun with the fucking tease against me..." My tongue darts out to lick lightly at the underside of the lob, moving just enough so that my pelvis grazes his. Fucking hell, I want his trousers gone as well. "What do you say, Damian? "

I smirk. My fingers trail up from his right kneecap to the inside of his thigh, resting half a handspan away from his navel. I scrape my nails along the flesh just under the shirt. I don't restrain his hands yet – he is free to grip where he likes. It appears tonight is my lucky night. Thank God for alcohol, and the ability to take away any inhibition.

I use my free hand to push up a little, and rock against him slowly, using my weight advantage for maximum friction. "You know" I say lightly, adjusting my position a little "I think the shirt has to go. It's not fair if I'm the only one missing that particular item of clothing" My face is just in front of his. "Would you prefer somewhere more private? Or is here just fine?"

~tbc~


	16. Chapter 16

~Prodigal Son, 16~

~Tim POV~

There is a lack of awkwardness which I am entirely unaccustomed to upon awaking. Due to the location of our escapades, I am forced to dress in the style which I chose for a delinquent identity - not for comfort. It is darker than usual, but I manage. We walk to Colin's facility in silence. This is the third of his treatments and he is progressing well. When I check his vitals upon arrival, it is good to see that the concentration of plasma venom has almost halved. I had initially thought that 10 of the blood cycles would be necessary, but apparently it will be less than that.

Damian's phone rings with yet a different ringtone. His expression indicates that it is not good news, whatever that means. Something has happened with one of the two brothers who are presently in hospital. I watch Damian carefully - he doesn't appear to be close to tears, or shaking with anything other than rage. It seems as though some incompetent fool has done something incorrect. Which means that in all likelihood the problem is with Jason. The word 'punished' jumps out from the conversation. Whatever has happened, Jason will not react well to that kind of negative stimulus. Or at least, that is what his files have said (the ones that I illegally obtained).

I nod in response to Damian's request, and as soon as he is gone, pull the computer up to functional. The good thing about the model that Jason decided to buy was that it has very fast processing capabilities. And the command zone is advanced. It doesn't take very long for me to locate Jason's cell signal, triangulate, and hack into the phone. I suppose hack isn't a very nice word for it, more... acquire access. The window pulls up video footage. There is no one in the room. It appears that Jason is gone.

Then something strange. A nurse approaches the bed cautiously. I can only watch from the cell's position on the floor - it must have got knocked off. The man bends, and begins to reach under the bed. So Jason is not gone, just seeking refuge.

Instantly, I can see that this is not going to go well for the man. What I do not expect, however, is for a thick arm to jerk out, and shove what looks like a broken kitchen utensil into the man's eye.

Dear God, what did they do to Jason to provoke that kind of reaction?

The Orderly's eye is bleeding profusely. There is the raising of voices,  
Damn. I can't find out any information as of yet without full knowledge of the situation. It occurs to me to leave in favour of determining if Jason is alright. But I cannot leave the patient I am currently attending to.

I am somewhat... relieved to find Damian entering. He will be able to communicate with Jason in the way the staff can't.

~Damian POV~

I can't hear any screaming or burning or sirens. Well, at least any screaming that sounds like Jason. I do not particularly care for the sounds of pain coming from the orderly. No, that's a lie. Because a) if Jay has resorted to violence things must be really quite bad, and b) this means an enormous amount of progress with the institute, by way of privileges, will have to be revoked.

I perceive a fraction of the 'punishment' instantly. The walls, 'cheerfully' decorated by Jason just a few days ago (and I find my heart creaking, a little, because he had been so...so pleased with things, as they were, and now-) have been whitewashed, the room stripped of anything personal. The Scrabble board, his photographs, personalised duvet, everything.

Even...even so...that would not have been enough to...I mean, this is BAD. A really bad reaction. The worst in years. Then again, what with Dick being...it'd be unsurprising...

He knows my feet, and my shoes, and so I go unmolested as I sit down, carefully, on the bed. From the tilt of the mattress, I surmise that he is barricaded with his back to the wall. For a minute, I just sit, quietly. I have seen Dick do this before. Best just to let him get used to the idea, first. I hear the slightest rustle of movement, and speak.

"Jason? What are you doing under there?" I ask, seriously, not allowing a thread of condescension to enter my tone. Because Jason despises being patronised. Not coddled. But patronised? He'll likely kill you.

"I'm dead and in my coffin, duh." he says, conversationally, and I hear the metallic twang of him picking at the metal meshing with his nails. Oh. This.

Jason had to claw his way out of his coffin. And so when his mind cannot cope, he retreats to a similar state of claustrophobia. It is an odd blend of comfort and masochism.

"You are not dead. Now give me whatever sharp thing you have in there, and come out."

It's not for my protection. I'm just a little afraid of what he may do to himself, right now.

"NO. I'm dead. Blecccch, zzzzz."

I rub my eyes, hard. Damn it, I'm not DICK. I don't have the patience for this. I just want him to get better and stay damn better, for once!

"Jason. Please. Don't do this right now."

He says nothing, but I FEEL the hurt. And feel utterly, utterly wretched for it. Here it comes.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want, thankyouverymuch, Dambo."

I grit my teeth "I am NOT resorting to bribing you. Come out. Now."

"I'm not GAY!"

"Jason. I am not playing this game with you."

The bed heaves with a sudden surge of violence, and I think, fuck, he's strong "STOP FUCKIN' PATRONISIN' ME YOU FILTHY LITTLE BASTARD MIDGET!"

My eyebrows fly up. And then I hear those little hitch sounds he makes, when he chokes the noises back. He'll feel guilty now. His mind will be propelled back into true, not feigned, childishness.

I heave a heavy breath, force my voice to be soothing "It is alright. I am not angry. Just come out."

I wait. A minute passes. Two.

"Jason. Come on."

It is so quiet that I almost do not catch it "I'll come if Dickie asks me real nice."

No. I shudder, rest my head in my hands, slip my fingers into my hair, and grip, almost painfully. "You know he cannot do that."

Then, he says something that surprises me "Cos he's dead-"

"DICK IS NOT. DEAD!" it bursts from me like a wound tearing open, and there's a terrible rhythm of crunching noises as he begins banging his head against the concrete, fuck, shit, I have to get him out, soon, get a GRIP, Damian Wayne, come ON.

"I'm sorry. It's just...Dick's not dead, alright? He's just in a coma. He's going to wake up."

This time the silence feels like an eternity.

"When?"

"I...do not know. I'm sorry, Jason. Come out. Please."

Don't make me resort to using Dick's voice, Jay. I really cannot deal with that right now. Minutes pass. Become five. Ten. My shoulders slump. And it comes to me like a revelation, what to do.

"Alright, Jay. I am going to call...Tim. Okay?"

~Tim POV~

I watch what is happening in silence. There is still the audible chug of the machine in the next room, but Colin is sedated, and that is enough for now. Jason is refusing to come out, and appears to be reverting into a state of protective psychosis. I do not like the idea of this at all. Damian is frustrated, and clearly not in the mood to deal with this, despite his concern.

What the hell do those moronic doctors think they are doing? Stripping all his personal possessions? Taking away his _bedclothes_? I clench my teeth together. This is unusual. The anger I can feel rising in my throat is not cold. It is not calculated. It is an inferno. I feel protective of Jason.

It almost dies with surprise when Damian suggests he is going to call me. And sure enough, two seconds later, my phone starts ringing. Damian requests I come to Jason's facility. And I barely have time to hang up and shove it in my pocket, I want to get out of here fast.

Colin.

Damn. He will just have to be sedated for longer than usual. I turn the machines off, and leave everything where it is. It may be a little cruel, but he will remain unconscious, which will hopefully make things a little better. I inform the nurses to not touch his equipment, saying curtly that there has been a family emergency, and run towards my destination. I vaguely register that my speed is mostly fuelled by worry and panic.

I do not question it.

When I get to the facility, I slam through the front door, rage having taken a tight grip around my ability to think.

The receptionist tries to stop me as they are in the middle of 'an urgent situation'. I inform her sharply that if she does not let me through, she will never have a job in care again. She lets me through.

I demand from the nearest person I can find for Jason Todd's possessions. They challenge me. Fury contorts my words, which end up turning into threats. Fortunately, I have enough standing in the medical community that it is not going to end up biting me in the ass. I have a doctor explain what happened, and the reason for the situation – apparently he thinks I am an external professional, come to handle the situation.

"His possessions have been removed for punishment purposes. I can't just give them back to you I'm afraid Mr. Drake."

Don't try me, you fucking moron. I will end your life here and now for your mistake with my brother.

"You will fetch everything that he owns NOW. If you do not, I will have you removed from this facility, from your license, or I will personally ensure that you are sued, and locked away for your idiocy."

He hurries, and returns with a box. Doctors and orderlies alike are looking at me with fear. Good. They better be afraid. Because they just incurred the wrath of TWO members of an important family, who are more than capable of castrating them physically, financially and psychologically as _punishment. _

I root around in the box to find the parts that I need. Then enter the room slowly. I sit down next to the periphery of the bed, making sure that my pinkish hands are in view. A way for Jason to recognise me.

"Hey, Jason. " I say, just about able to see his hulk-like form at the back of the wall. I place my pieces in front of where I am sitting. No tricks. "How are you doing?" I push the little toy car under the bed, aiming it to come to rest next to his leg. It trundles along.

He helped me. Now it's my turn to do the same.

~Jason POV~

What's nutty? Dunno, m'nuts, so ya better not ask me. I might lie. Cept I don't. Ok, I do. Loads but that's cool cos I have a right to cos I'm NUTS. I hate nuts. Hate bolts too. Hate coffins.

I feel a teensy weensy eensy little bit better cos DeeDee n' Duckie are here now and that's real nice, cos they came when I wanted but I want DICK. Not in my mouth or ass but just HERE. Dick Dick Dick slick back in a tick. Cept he wasn't.

Lexie. Lexie Lexie Lexie Luthor. They took it an everythin' but Duckie got it back and he'll get it all back right? Stick me back in my head n' make all the pipes stop lookin' like crow_ars. I swallowed the B's. Swallowed the bullshit.

"Hey Duckie." I kick Lexie back cos I wanna play catch, n' I like Timmy's shoes, they're all shiny n' shit "bad. Kinda. Not doin' so well. I'm dead, y'see. Proper dead. Not Brucie dead."

My head hurts real bad. S'sticky. Stick stick stick. Bars. Crows. Dead dead deady dead dead.

~Tim POV~

Jason's clearly lost it, and retreated back to the place where everything makes sense. I don't feel sympathy so much, as the desire to help. I am well aware of how comforting being in the familiar is when you feel alone.

"You're dead? That's pretty tough. Sorry to hear it." Not Brucie dead? ... Does that mean he believes that Bruce is still alive?

That might have been nice to know about ten years ago.

The car rolls back to my feet. I push it back.

"So how come you're dead today?"

~Jason POV~

"They let the B's back in." I say n' pick up Lexie n' roll her tyres up n' down my nose. I'm big, big big and I don' like it, I wanna be small, not a kid, a fuckin' kid, but SMALL so he can't even see me "I wanna be small."

Timmy speaks no sense, so I get him, n' my head really REALLY hurts "Well, m'not NOT dead, s'just that m'not alive either."

I roll Lexie back cos I wanna bite my hands til they're dust, so then they can't shake no more "Grrrfl." awwww now I can't talk so I stick my thumb just my thumb little fat thumb in my teeth instead n' it tastes funny. Oh yeeeeah I bit n scratched n' tore em off when I got out.

"M'dead cos it's funny. S'Joke. Ar. Haha."

Joker.

FUCKFUCKFUCK now everything's banging n' the walls n' floor are hittin' me an' it HURTS!

"They let HER in! N' she said I was dead and that I had to tell her how an' why n' what and how I FEEL an' where Brucie was but I DON'T FUCKIN' KNOW! An' she wouldn' go away so I pushed her n' then...then they came...n' gave me SHIT and took MY SHIT an'..."

His eyes are in front of my nose. They're blue.

~Tim POV~

If the Bs were let back in, then likelihood whatever upset him was to do with Batman, or his history. Possibly something else that is related to it. I don't know him well enough to know what else would be stigma. I wish that I did.

"So really, you're undead. " Another technical term, Timothy. But he appears to be responding to it, so that's all that matters. He is talking about 'she' and 'her' his limbs moving almost as though he is entirely out of control of his body. I move underneath the bed, close enough to make eye contact. He stops convulsing.

"Can I see your hands?" I ask, almost tempted to say please on the end. He really is in a bad way. He hands over the mentioned appendage, and I look them over, assessing the damage. He will need bandages, and cleanup.

"I've got your things back. You can have them now if you like. " I don't know if thats playing his game of insanity or not. It almost hurts to see the zen-like person I met a few days ago be this riled. Damian, from his position atop the bed, asks Jason who 'she' is.

Whoever 'she' is, is going down.

~Jason POV~

"I like zombie movies." I mrrfle, cos I'm sucking my fingers again cos they sting. Feels better. Feels bigger now Duckie's in here cept it shouldn't be cos Duckie's ickle wickle. Thin like a twig, snap.

Who? She she she her. Vicki. Call me Vicki, she said n' I called her nasty shite but then...she knows stuff. Lots of stuff. Bad, bad bad stuff. The worst kind of stuff. But she wanted to know more stuff, stuff I didn' know an' stuff that I did but wouldn' ever tell her cross my heart an' hope to DIE.

I huuuum "Can't say. Or else." I lick my thumb n' make a lil cross on Duckie's forehead. I'm Catholic. Used ta be. Hispanic. Used ta be. Jason. Used ta be. Pleased ta meetcha. God bless us every one.

Then, I tap tap tap, an' slide, on Timmy's creamy marble slate skin "Can't say. Wouldn' dream of it. Can' SAY."

She's listenin'. Hear me Duckie? LISTENIN'. I tap. Dot dot dot dash. Dot dot. Dash dot dash dot. Dash dot dash. Dot dot.

~Tim POV~

Tapping. On my forehead. I dredge up the memory of the book I once read on morse code. It wasn't as if we were required to learn such an outdated method of communication, there were plenty of other codes. I was just interested at the time. Hmm. Page 27, chapter 4. Right. The room is bugged.

I nod imperceptibly. I understand exactly what he is trying to say. "Right. Ok. " The car lays between us, left still. I pick it up, and consider. There is no video evidence, and it appears that Jason needs to be childish, at least for a little while. "Tell you what, " I start, moving the car over his shins, to roll up over one knee, and taking a wide arc between us before starting to make its way up the other. "We're gonna take a walk. And we're going to go and visit Dick. But you got to promise me that you'll let me look at your hands, ok? " The car repeats its loop

"And there might be hotdogs and Iron Man plasters in it for you. " Lets see if its tempted him. I move, rolling the car beside me, to just outside the bed. I really hope he follows. He needs medical care, not just psychological.

~Jason POV~

Pah! Hogwash Duckie, cos if ya think ya can bribe ME the omnipotent Jason Todd to relinquish his lair with nothin' but a shiny midget car an' Marvel bullshit an' Dickie-

Well he's tee-totally fuckin' right.

I craaaaaawl army commando but with clothes on styley, after Timmy into the bright white light of this dumbass stupid room. It really really really hurts n' Damo's shoes are shiny and fuuuuuuck he looks PISSED. Dami-chan slips his hot lil' hands under my armpits that should stink and be gross, but DON'T cos I don' sweat. Not EVER. Plops me on th'bed kinda rough. He's angry but I kinda like it cos, Damo is always honest bout how he feels with lil ol' me.

"Jason." he grits n' grinds as he goes snip snip wipe poke OW at my head "I've told you about not hurting your head like this. There's NO excuse for it. None. Stop hurting yourself."

I nestle n' rub against his stomach, cos Damo is a cat who speaks kitty "Mmmmfkay, Mama."

I can kinda hear him through his bowels go whisper whisper mumble to Duckie "Can you rub his knees? This is going to be painful. Touching his knees keeps him calm. Dick used to do it all the time."

Timmy's hands n' fingertips are real nice n' cool n' quiet on my caps, but it still HURTS OUCH OUCH owwwwwwwww.

~Damian POV~

It's fortunate that Jason is, literally, so hard-headed. His skull is biologically thicker than average, possibly due to the sheer amount of time he spends falling over and into things. I have entertained the vague idea, sometimes, that perhaps a blow to the cranium as a child may have caused pressure or swelling, which exacerbates his...mental state. I shall have to discuss it with Timothy.

The slope of his shoulders are enormous, and drooped, like a wilted Goliath. He had been clumsy before, but now he seems ill-fitting in his broad form. Possibly because his confidences are so bi-polar. He swings wildly from the desire to curl into the smallest corner and to fill every inch of space he can.

He still shakes, and spasms, periodically, but Timothy did an incredible job, calming him. I find myself inexplicably...jealous. Timothy fills Dick's role with smooth ease, seemingly. Despite his stunted emotional capacities. I had thought I had grown. I had thought myself...able to support...no matter. Jason, is what matters, now.

Damn. This will need stitches.

Timothy efficiently distracts our Gulliver with talk, idle, and knees, and cars. I feel the compulsion to join in.

"Perhaps we could re-decorate this room when you return, Jason." I say, absently, dabbing at a congeal of scabbing at the crown of his head "Together. Timothy could help you paint a mural. Formula One?"

Jason humms, and rocks a little, biting the serrated edges of his nails, and Timothy frowns and carefully extracts them. But he seems infinitely improved, infinitely "Yea. S'nice. But YOU do the cars n' angles n' engines n' landscapes. Timmy does faces."

I blink, surprised, snip at the neat thread on Jason's sealed brow "I see." I don't.

"I miss Alfred." he exclaims, suddenly. I feel my heart sink, but not plummet. It feels...good to talk. Just to allow it to be present. It is almost like Alfred is preserved. Jason. I do not think I know you as well as perhaps, I should. I know that you like your knees to be touched because of Alfred's administrations. But that, is only because Dick told me. Perhaps I should look harder.

I surprise myself and, faced with his open, stiff-lipped misery, cup the box-curves of his cheeks, rub the rasp of stubble (I shall have to help him shave, soon) and press my lips into the coarse valley between his so carefully maintained cowlicks. Another Dickism. I hope he will not claim copyright when he wakes.

"Me too, Jay." I murmur.

"Can I see Dick now?"

I look to Timothy. We are somewhat at his mercy, here. He has the power in this medical field of play.

~tbc~


	17. Chapter 17

~Prodigal Son, 17~

~Tim POV~

Jason follows me, and for this I am glad. He is immediately yanked up and attended to. Damian looks thoroughly aggravated, but there is relief tugging at the corners of his mouth. Or at least, that is what I have seen in the past days when he is relieved. There is a pattern, but it doesn't definitively mean that the micro-expression is related to relief.

Damian instructs me to … touch Jason's knees. That is an intriguing place to have a weak spot. Perhaps he hurt them as a child and has exposed neurones? Or maybe it is something entirely psychosomatic. I don't know, and don't really mind laying my hands across his knees and brush the skin of his kneecaps with my thumb. They feel scarred, even though they don't look it particularly.

Jason's honesty with regard to his emotions is somewhat of a shock. I know that he has an agenda only about half of the time so things are more impulsive, less calculated. It is something that I find infuriating given that when Damian and I speak, it appears to be mostly a battle of wills. Damian comforts him in a manner that I would definitely not usually attribute to the youngest Wayne. Then again who am I to say what Damian would and would not do, given the previous… evenings.

Something in my belly squirms at being called Timothy. I am not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing.

"Sure, Jason. We can go and see Dick. I'm just going to give your possessions back, ok, and then have a little chat with some people. I'll be about ten minutes. " I finally stand from my position on the floor.

I retrieve the box, and place it at Jason's feet. It has all his clothes, all his possessions, photographs, the whole lot. How could the people here not know that to someone whose mind cannot cling to almost anything, these things are his life? That taking them away is ludicrous?

Then I leave the room again, and shut the door.

"Which of you is responsible for causing that to occur? " I demand.

A young man speaks up. "The patient is a violent person, with a volatile nature! It is not unreasonable to use Benperidol as the first approach for treatment. " That makes me angry. Very, very angry.

"So." I snarl out. "How long have you been here, Doctor?"

"A week, sir. "

"Have you looked at the records? Read through his notes?"

"I haven't quite had time to yet –"

"Understood anything about him, or why he gets defensive?, given that it is your JOB and I am supposed to be trusting this facility to treat Jason with care and respect!"

"Well, no. I was just preventing him from attacking the staff. "

"Under what circumstance has he ever attacked the staff unprovoked? And please" I draw the word out, my lips curled. " bear in mind that I have read every single note relating to him. "

He falls silent.

"You attempted to switch Jason from chlorprothiexe to Benperidol out of your lack of judgement. You then PUNISHED him, for being unsettled by a stranger taking over his care, stripped his clothing, privileges and possessions, which if you have had ANY training whatsoever, you would know they would serve as a comfort. Am I correct?" My voice has risen. I am two seconds away from punching him.

"It appears so, yes. "

"It APPEARS so?" Calm, Timothy. You are supposed to be acting as a physician, not a family member.

"… Yes. You are correct."

"Remove yourself from this facility immediately, or I will be forced to do it for you. I will be taking Jason out to see his brother, to re-instigate an familiar environment. During which time you will be replacing anything that you have taken from him that are not in that box. His privileges will be reinstated, and you are going to make damned sure that an event such as this NEVER happens again. Is that understood?"

I get mute nods. Good.

I think I am going to have to intervene in this facility.

I make my way back to Jason's room, and poke my head through the door. "You're free to go and visit Dick for a few hours, if you like "

~Damian POV~

Timothy is practically SPITTING at the hospital staff. Jason seems to enjoy the display, smirking with an uncertainty that pains me. I swirl my fingertips on the back of his scarred knuckles, then busy myself with dressing him. He delights in ravaging his box of possessions, naming each and occasionally babbling narratives of their history.

I feel something fierce in me, as I listen.

I recall the Tim Drake of years ago. He was...intelligent, but unsure of himself. Ever in another's shadow. Troubled. Timothy...is fundamentally unstable, but here, now, screaming on Jason's behalf...Jason, who abused him as much as he did any other (not that, somehow, any of us can bring ourselves to hold it against him; Jay is...the most hurt of any of us, and I would...give him the world, if I could). There is a terrible strength. A righteousness. Timothy is ruthless, and cold, and his mind is...

Fuck. I have fallen far to into this. And fallen, hard.

Jason does not question Timothy's sudden devotion to him. He even manages a smirk, as he listens, and I find myself carding at the thick hair at the base of his wide neck. I am not good with affection. But this Jason, this simple, mad, utterly sane creature, is so accepting of everything that it seems tempting to give it. That could be dangerous. I rub at the knots of muscle bunched over my elder brother's vertebrae. What would liberal Jason give, to unscrupulous people, if they asked him?

But, no. He has proved today that he is as stubborn and capable of defending himself, in his way, as he ever was. There is a thick finger in my side. I blink, glance down. Jason is frowning at me.

"You LIKE him." he accuses, suddenly, ecstatically, and cackles, toppling over. Shitfuck my stomach drops below my feet by several storeys "Don't be ridiculous."

He snaps his head to the side, still snickering euphorically, enfolds a chunk of my hand in his teeth in an excited, but careful, bite, one of his inexplicable tics "S'kinda hot."

I roll my eyes "You are awful." And I do. Not. Like him. The fact I have now had sexual intercourse twice notwithsta-

Arrrrrrrrgh.

"He likes you tooooo~"

The door opens.

~Jason POV~

"You can go and visit Dick for a few hours if you like."

WOO yeah! I get to go see Dickie, yeah. M'gonna bring him an eggcup for a yolk. HA!

"Uh...I..." awwwwww poor Damo is all flustered n' shit cos I bit him n' told him Timmy wantsa polish his echidnaaaa stiiiiiick an' by that I mean penis "Actually, Timothy I- ahem. Perhaps you should take Jason out for an hour or two, while I check on Dick's medical condition."

Roadtrip (sans road, sans car, maaaaan) with Timmy? Yeeea I can roll with that. I'm a sausage. On a roll. I wan' some butter! An' a hot dog.

"Jason? Would you mind? Would you like that?" Damo pulls his hand outta my mouth an' I pout cos it tasted o' lemons. I nod n' jump up then jump again cos I can, an' cos I got my hulk shirt n' jeans on now but no shoes cos I HATE shoes.

"YEA! I wan' hot dogs. An' a hat like Dickie's. An'...not flowers cos flowers are Timmy's guilty gift thingie..."

"Timothy can help you choose a gift for Dick. Put your shoes on."

"No."

"Jason..."

"NO! Don' tell ME what ta do, hobbit, I'm the big brother in da house here."

~Tim POV~

Jason seems to be very enthused at the idea of meandering outside these walls. I quirk an eyebrow however at Damian's hesitance, and request. I will not ask, although my curiosity makes me want to probe him for answers. Apparently something has caused embarrassment, given there is a slight dusting of pink on his cheeks. Hm. Intriguing. I attempt not to fixate.

"Jason, " I say quietly. "Please put your shoes on. I don't want you to hurt your feet. " He appears to appreciate being appealed to like an adult, and does not object to my putting boots on his feet, and zipping them up. I try not to be daunted by the fact that his feet are enormous. He could crush a small child by merely standing on them – (morbid thoughts, Timothy. Always a good idea. )

"All right then. So shall we reconvene at the hospital in approximately two to three hours?" Damian agrees. And a few moments later I walk out with Jason as if he wasn't incarcerated, or mentally unstable.

Jason attempts to hold my hand once we are out of the square. I don't mean to, but I move away pretty quickly, relinquishing the hold. My fingers are still a little painful from the … problem with Conner.

He physically droops. Lowering himself to possibly three inches above my height instead of the customary foot (or something like that. I can't really remember how tall he is at this point).

Damn. It was much easier when I didn't feel guilt. Whatever relationship I seem to be manifesting with Jason Todd makes me incapable of being unemotional. It is almost annoying.

After a moments pause, I tug his elbow, and link my arm around his. Perhaps it is a comfort measure, to ensure that he feels attached to something. I'm not entirely sure. I don't want to probe just in case it is painful to discuss, or in his present state, he feels unbalanced.

The first stop is somewhere for hotdogs. There is a stall outside the local shopping centre. It is with almost disbelief that I watch him devour the seven hotdogs he requests within approximately a minute and a half. I have no issue paying for them, but he is going to get sick from that many onions!

I pick at mine fussily. I don't like any sauce lest it gets on my fingers. The time passes slowly, but it is comfortable, and Jason talks whilst I listen. I believe he is grateful to be outside of the walls of his prison.

"So where do you want to go to find a gift for Dick? " I eventually ask when we have meandered around a park for a little. It is almost absurd that I am essentially taking a walk with an insane brother whom used to frighten me terribly after not having seen him for almost a decade.

It is strange how fast things progress. And how out of control they have already spun.

~Jason POV~

My stomach huuurts but I don' give a crap cos I got chili dogs! Lots of em too. Timmy didn' make me stop after 5 like Dickie did. Note for later: Timmy is easy. Ba-dum-tish (that's the sleazy noise ain't it...?)

I love bein' free.

Out in the air and goin' anywhere. Or sometimes nowhere, jus' whatever the hell you like. Makes me wanna be sane, cept not, cos...s'too hard. M'so...tired of stuff bein' hard. I had ta fight n' fight n' fight when I was angry n' nuts. People leered n' jeered n' hit n' shot at me. But the second I'm blubbin' s'all 'poor baby Jay' an' presents n' comfy sheets.

"Fact is...in the end...it was either sane an' alone an' in jail...or stuck in a can but gettin' visited." I just...I just wanted someone ta do somethin' for ME for once, y'know? Not have ta fight n' bleed for it and wait wait WAIT for them to GEDDIT.

Wassit worth it?

"Bein' in the clink makes me mad." I'm talkin' to ma dog, ma chillin' dog, ma chilli dog ""But there was no other way to make everything stop."

Duckie is this weirdass blur of black n' shiny. I forgot him for a sec "Ya used to wear red. Me too." I scrunch up my chilli in my fuckoff big hands, too big, FUCKIN' big, hate it hate it hate it "D'ya hate me, for before, pajarito?"

I fold myself up like a box, cos it matters, cos Timmy used ta hate me like everyone else an' I still know why THEY don' anymore.

~Tim POV~

I am silent as he starts talking about more serious topics. We have stopped briefly to decide where the next destination is. Do I hate him? Well. The answer I guess is that I used to. For a long, long time. It is very difficult to hate the person that he is now, for inexplicable reasons. I postulate that its probably due to the sheer level of vulnerability in his fierce attitude, and slight mania. It is easier to be sympathetic with someone who is painting green car tracks on the wall than someone who is shooting at you, or attempting to molest you. I suppose it takes anger out of the equation. Although I'm not sure that its the sole reason.

The question takes some consideration. "I ... understand your actions. " I'm not sure there is anything else I can say. I wouldn't go as far as to forgive, especially given I am predisposed to hold a grudge, apparently. But I am more comfortable in his company, which in itself speaks volumes. He has been allowed to violate the bubble rule several times - that should indicate something.

I place a tentative hand on his forearm. Not sure why it is ok to touch Jason. It seems natural, even though somewhere in the back of my mind, logic demands I don't. But instinct does not protest. "I don't really hold you accountable."

~Jason POV~

"Ya should." an' I seem ta be falterin', fallin' back into that dark complicated place "After all, I did em. Chose to."

But thanks, Duckie, for gettin' it. The sky is so blue today. An' I should dull n' castrate myself fore I get clever n' pissed n' kill someone. Or somethin'.

"Aaaaah, well." my eyes are closed n' the sun sinks into my face, n' it feels so good "A carro entornado, todos son camidos."

Me? I'mma beaten track n' a broke down car. S' one o' my Pa's favourite lil sayings while his cock was in my mouth. Asked Brucie ta look it up, once. On the web. Got loads o' stuff. Lit-er-ally (lit up alley, light up an ally...hm) means to an overturned car, all roads are open. To a car that's half closed to your destiny to hell, all are roads. Or ass Alfie puttit 'to the confused, panicked, gullible, or half-educated person, all answers seem equally valid.' Or, Dickie thought, 'to somebody corrupt, everyone is useable.' Me?

I think it means ya should always carry a spare fuckin' tire an' a cellphone.

Or that someone who's fuck-desperate and got nothin', can do anythin', do anyone', go anywhere. Cept that ain't true. S' only ever one RIGHT road. An' I feel the red comin' back.

"S'red again." I mumble, lean down n' lick some chilli sauce from the edge o' Duckie's mouth. Then grab a lamppost an' slam my forehead innit, real hard.

...ow. I want a hat. Aaaaall better. He'll hate me now. Don' matter. M' mad Jay again. I ain't accountable. Right? Got it all, got nothin', fuck all. I seee sky. In a shop. Shiny glass. On paper. Ooh.

"Dickie wants ta fly." my nose goes squish gainst the glass, n' I poke at it so Timmy can see n' buy it n' make Dickie wake up.

~Tim POV~

Jason utters a phrase that I can't comprehend. I resolve to look it up later; by the tone he says it in, it sounds like something important. Something that I should know. Thankfully, my memory is adept at remembering things that I don't always necessarily understand.

Unfortunately, I do understand when he licks my face. I feel bile immediately rise, but school my expression instantly. I have to adjust it so that it is believable that nothing is wrong. Not too cold. Push it all down. I can do that. God knows I've done it lots before.

He must have thought of a trigger. Or something that upsets him. I'm shocked when he throws his head into the metal of a lamppost. Actually denting it. "Jason, stop! " I think there is worry imprinted all over my face. I can't tell. Admittedly I am concerned about his mental state. I just don't know whether it is physiological or psychological. More often than not, it is exceedingly difficult to diagnose. My hands reach his shoulders much after he has hurt his head. "Please, don't do that again. Are you all right?"

God, I hope that doesn't cause cranial swelling. There are enough problems in this family as it is.

The sky poster is a good idea. Dick does like to fly. And we could put it on his walls next to the window. Or possibly on the ceiling. Something along those lines. I buy 9. It should be sufficient in the room, given it is not too large.

Jason is occupied by the toy cars. I am looking at hats. He mentioned he wanted one. Perhaps I should be reassuring him that I am not angry? Even if the sick feeling in my stomach won't desist.

Hats. Right. But what colour?

There are blues, and oranges. But Dick has blue, and I suppose that is related in some way to his colour. It belongs to him. Red used to belong to Jason, but that is a trigger I would imagine. Besides, getting the person who just stabbed an orderly in the eye something the colour of blood probably is never a good idea.

The greens look a bit too dark. But I can't give Jason Damian's colour.

There are various hues of yellow, but I doubt that giving him a colour that psychologically indicates suicide, due to haunting people who are unhappy with happiness is a good idea either.

Damn. This is difficult.

I am rummaging through the stand. Jason notices and comes to join. He joins the array of hats and fingers, and immediately goes for the most lurid pink and fluffy cowboy hat I have ever seen. The sight of it alone makes me want to vomit.

"_No._"

He complains.

"Definitely not. "

Then one catches my eye. A white beanie with a cap like rim that is not too large at the front. I suppose white is as neutral as one can get. I hold it out for him to try.

White. So he can start again. Untarnished. "Would you like it?"

~Jason POV~

"Yeah!" Yeah yeah sure yup definitely si hai ja yes "Yeah. M'never gonna take it off!"

For serious plebbies. I ain't. You just watch me. Ya gonna have ta crow_ar it offa my head. Timmy buys the pictures for Dickie an' I hold em over my shoulders like a gun or stick or somethin'. Feels good n' right. Duckie ain't mad but he is sad, so I run a bit ahead, always stay in sight but with my might keep it tight, cos I bite.

He bitches bout it loudly but I do it anyway cos s'better for him. I nick an apple on th'way cos the doggies gone the way o' the sewers. Hot doggies. Th'apple is cold. Duckie yells some more but I ain't listenin', pays the old broad I took it from. Dickie used ta say he lost looooads o' his chubby chubs out with me. I'mma public service!

An' I'm still the fastest Roboin, motherfucker. I know cos I outran Dee that one time I put carrot hair dye in his n' Dickie's shampoo so they'd fit in with ME for once.

Duckie fiiiinally catches up outside the posh rich bitch hospital while m' finishin' munchin' my apple "Jeez louise, Timbo, ya need ta work out." I push my fist up and go 'PCHOW', like I got a Batcable read the label if ya able, then jump up n' cliiiimb up like Spiderman ta Dickie's room. 5 storeys, beginning, middle, end.

Duckie takes the stairs. Pussy.

~Tim POV~

I think Jason has decided that as he hasn't had any exercise in a while, and hasn't been out in a little, he is going to kill me with a myocardial infarction. He shoots off in front of me. I was going to keep behind him and not run, but it quickly becomes impossible. For a tall person, he runs very, very fast. Guess long legs are good for something. "Jason! Slow down!"

He doesn't listen, predictably. Then he ends up stealing something, which I am definitely not pleased with. But he continues to run. I apologise to the woman from whom he stole, and hand her a couple of dollars - I can't pause for long, because he is continuing to run. And then he is climbing.

I watch in mute horror as he scales the hospital and enters through the window. It forces me to run up the stairs, entering the hospital room as fast as I can make it up five flights. It is not as though I am unfit. Jason just underestimates how fast he runs to the normal sized person.

I can feel my hair all over the place. My bangs are in my face, and heat is creeping up my cheeks. I lean against a wall. "Bloody... long.. legs... " Fuck, perhaps I need to run more instead of doing martial arts constantly. I'm panting from running a little way across Gotham, and then up some flights of stairs? Damn.

Damian greets us. I can't muster the words to say hi through breaths, so I lift a hand into a wave. Pathetic. Definitely going to have to start running, starting tomorrow.

~tbc~


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Introducing Vicki Vale, villainess! Be warned, I despise her character so she's probably more than a little OOC. She is supposed to be insane, from the perspective of an obsessive stalker driven mad by the absence of the object of her affection.

~Prodigal Son, 18~

~Damian POV~

...huh.

I had been a little apprehensive about sending Timothy on a 'babysitting session' with Jason. To those unused to his moods, they can be...eventful. Even dangerous, but due to Timothy's performance in the Phoenix Institute, I had decided to risk it.

The results, as always with Jason, are surprising. There is a small trickle of renewed blood on his skull, but nothing major. He wears a...beanie hat, white, of matching style to Dick's. That will please him. He shows me the posters they had purchased, with a little bit of an excess of smugness. My eyes narrow. I absolutely do NOT dwell upon Timothy, the dip of his sternum slightly exposed through the askew shirt and sheen with perspiration, the rough flush to his cheeks, tousled hair. Red lips.

Heat coils in my belly and so I turn to my troublesome Goliath "Did you hit your head again?"

He nods sheepishly, throws himself into a chair and rests his head on Dick's rhythmically rising chest, and bites his thumb absently "I saw red. But I got rid of it."

Oh God. I turn to Timothy, eyes flitting quickly, evaluating. No injury. I glance back at Jason, who appears to be growing drowsy at the slightly overwarm comfort of Dick. "Are you alright?"

Timothy nods. I let out a slow breath "A word of warning. Jason has two safety triggers conditioned in him. If he feels unstable, he will mention red. If he has already mentally...snapped...he will automatically mention 'joke'. If he does...get out."

Timothy acknowledges, and leaves somewhat swiftly. I frown.

~Tim POV~

Damian informs me of some of the words to watch out for as a warning. It would have been a little more helpful a couple of minutes ago, admittedly. I feel bile rising again. Damn, why is my memory so fucking sharp? It has the tendency to replay things over and over that I really don't want to keep seeing.

Damn.

I finger the duck which is still in my pocket. I can't use that soap. If I go up to the surgical floor, there will be a few more bathrooms there, with a little privacy. There have got to be a few staff ones dotted about as well. Would it be more obvious to go to a staff, or public one?

I decide upon staff. Just because the soap will be better disinfectant. And they are usually tucked away.

One.

I wash my face, and sort out the ridiculous mess that is my hair. Every single strand is out of place, and it really bothers me. I don't even have one of my normal shirts on today either.

Two.

It is pointless telling myself to stop, because regardless of what the conscious wants, the unconscious won't abide. "Fuck." I mutter. That is really hurting. It has only had a few days to recover a couple of layers of skin.

Three

Maybe I shouldn't scrub so hard, but it's difficult not to.

By the time I get to ten, I'm losing hope of every leaving this place. I dry my hands, and walk to the door. I am two steps away from freedom when I return to my place. "For God's sake, stop it!" I say aloud, whacking my fist against a wall in frustration. Back to the sink it is.

Wonderful.

~Damian POV~

Timothy's fragility is terrible, and perversely alluring, to see.

I do not remain in the doorway for long. Feel that, if I am to invade and intrude upon this- as he did, a night or so ago with- the scars- then I may as well just step over the threshold, and invade.

"You can stop." I announce my presence, hold my palms up in surrender, to this this THIS- no, hold them flat in a gesture of peace. He seems frozen as I approach. I do not hesitate, cannot, now, but am firm, decisive, rhythmic. My lower mind sings of the sweat and disarray of before, now gone. I ignore it.

I don surgical gloves. The snap of rubbery elastic makes me swallow, hard. But the sight of him...in need...desperate...quells any heat that remains, and so, I wash his hands. Turn them, slowly as on a spit, beneath a reduced, caressing flow. Retrieve bacterial gel from my pocket, in place of soap. Aloe vera, to sooth the abrasions. I had bought many things this morning, without thinking why. Now, I know.

I dip each finger in the flow, and rub, up and down, inbetween the crevices of his knuckles, all in prime turns. His breathing gradually evens. When his right hand ceases spasming, I place it, definitively, back at his side, and pick up the other. I do the same for this, ignore the itch of my skin beneath the plastic, for warmth, for the slide of pore upon pore. For touch. I breath very, very deeply to mask the heaviness.

When I am finished, his eyes still flit, around, to and fro, to the soap dispenser, the tap, the mirror, the sink. Damn.

I am not really thinking. It just seems to come to me. I had noticed, a pattern in his patterns, 17. His age when he left us. The date of my Father's death. Of Dick's Birthday, by another month. I smooth my rubbered hands from the tip of his chin to frame his face, perfectly symmetrically, perfectly even, and lean in him to look his squarely in the eye.

"You can stop. You can stop. You can stop." I murmur, and it as a staring contest, the air thick yet empty, and don't blink, don't look away "Stop." then, I say it again "Stop." And again. And again. Seventeen times, in total, and on the seventeenth, his eyes flutter closed.

Our lips are so close I can feel the condensation of his breath dampen the curve of mine, but I do not move. Do not relinquish control, because that is what he needs now. Control. Instead, I step slowly, and neatly, away, and carefully take his elbows. Pull him, in steps of three, towards the exit.

The floor is wet. I should have remembered, I think, cursing, when my foot slides and I go down hard, accidentally pulling him with me and bringing him crashing down on top of me. Ouch. It feels familiar, and not uncomfortable, and hurts, and is heavy, but that is good. But still, no heat. No pool of twisted feeling. Just a contented warmth.

"Ow." I mutter, and let him lie, for 17 seconds, before beginning to slide my fingers up and down his clothed ribs, keeping the pattern, seventeen strokes, seventeen seconds pause.

Eventually, he pools against me, and I think, I have something for you in my pants, literally.

"I found you something." I murmur, and then sneeze, because his hair is getting in my nose, and freeze, but he seems placated enough not to 'freak-out' about the bacteria "They were Alfred's. He would want you to have them. Tailored. The softest blend you can buy, and I had a film of antisceptic added this morning, on the inside."

Gloves. I like his hands, but I would rather they were hidden than hurt "I will give them to you, when you feel you can let me up."

~Tim POV~

It is utterly mortifying when Damian intrudes on this ridiculous ritual which my brain instructs me to follow. I wish it were not so, but conditioning cannot be so easily undone. It started when I began my surgical rotation, and was required to wash my hands often enough that it became a comfort.

And as things spiralled out of control, it became easier and easier to rely on that feeling of clean if I couldn't do anything else right. It may be absurd from an external perspective, but it made sense at the time. Logical, irrefutable sense. Which I always trust in.

My hands are still under the water when he enters. I have thin fingers, but even now, they look a little swollen. Fuck! How can I allow myself to show this much weakness, after all this time? After finding so many methods to control it?

His hands are unexpectedly coated in surgical gloves. I focus upon them instead of him. I have to force myself to not move away when he takes my pathetic, useless hands.

I am aware the gel is anti-bacterial, as it stings, in contrast to the soothe of aloe. It is interesting that he came prepared. Perhaps this particular display of weakness was anticipated? Or was it just a high probability due to Jason's instability? But Damian could not have anticipated Jason's… problem this morning.

It is strange to find yourself oddly fascinated with something so simple. Although somewhere, in the back of my head, it is utterly unnerving that Damian is washing my hands instead of me. I don't like people touching them. At all. But he is using the correct number combinations. It is soothing to watch each careful movement. Everything in prime.

I can feel my blood flow become more sluggish as my tachycardia reduces. He appears to sigh, and I worry for exasperation. Although when exactly I started to care this much, I am not sure. Perhaps I should be pinpointing the exact moment. It is all too tempting to go back to the soap dispenser. Should I be pulling away?

The instruction to stop cannot be obeyed by sense alone. Damian stops on the seventeenth, and I can feel relief beginning to flood through. Apparently my own insanity has been mollified for the minute. Surgical gloves are still on my face, and surprise clicks into place as I realise that the touch does not bother me either. Evidently I don't need to be incapacitated due to alcohol for that kind of touch.

And that in itself is an odd revelation.

A small shudder is all I feel when we hit the floor. It does not feel uncomfortable. Gentle hands fulfil the order I have come to rely on. I should be complaining, or moving away, but I don't. I should be regaining control on my own, but I haven't.

Why?

I should really address that question when I am not so firmly stooped in denial.

He sneezes, and I remind myself that if it is illness, due to last night, it is likely I already have it.

Usually I would have wanted anything of Alfred's to belong to either Dick, Jason or him, given I was not present for the latter, and final part of his life.

I find my eyes closed, and my face pressed carefully against the curve of skin between his cheekbone and jaw line. "Thank you" Slips out quietly before I even realise I have done it. Those two words do not correctly convey the level of gratitude I feel. We remain as thus for a few more moments. I count the seconds in my head. 85. A multiple. It is acceptable.

I push myself up and stand. Offer him a hand. He takes it. It is not as painful as it previously was.

The gloves are a kind, kind gift. It is a relief to have them on, but I only do so when Damian has returned to Dick's room. I inform them of returning to the institute, to continue Colin's treatment, and head off.

My head should be in disarray, but it is not. And it is all due to Damian.

~Vicki Vale POV~

I've been waiting for this, for years. Yes, years. Ten years, three hundred and forty six days, five hours and six minutes. Years of gruelling research, crawling through rat-infested tunnels and the world's finest gilded lavatories, all in pursuit of one, glorious goal:

Bruce Wayne. My love. My betrayal. My lust. My revenge.

And here, now, another vital piece of the puzzle falls into my lap. Tim Drake. I know more about him than perhaps any of the other little rugrats, as his absence intrigued me more even than Jason Todd's juicy little number. Dear, dear. Oh, but he is as ethereal and gorgeous as ever he was. He has blossomed, with growth. A beautiful young man. Not particularly my type, however. Too young. Too think. Lacking in...substance.

I approach with my customary click of heals, flash of white, and sway of hips, although from what I have seen he will be immune to my particular brand of charms "Good evening, Mr Drake. I'm sure you remember me. Vicki, Vicki Vale."

He glares, opens his mouth, and toss my hair over my shoulder. I am not here for their whiny, soap-opera bullcrap. I'm on the hunt!

"Now, boy. Before you bore me with your little hissy fit over Jason Todd, I assure you, I did not mean to make the mentally retarded freak blow a fuse. It was in my interests to remain WHOLE, thank you very much."

His jaw drops. Ah. So he did not know he was me. Clearly, he is not as clever as darling Daddy made him seem "No harm done? Friends again? Wonderful! Now, Todd is not why I'm here." I snap open my purse, retrieve the delicious slippery packet of polaroid "I am here for you. Or, more specifically, what you know." I smirk a painted smile "And what I know."

I throw down a single image. Flushed faces, clothes askew, but the greatest Sin is in their faces. The sheer rawness of it astounds even me!

"Really, you should be ashamed of yourselves. It's disgusting. Two men, brothers! And so handsome, too. Such a waste." I lament, and tsk "So tell me, Tim, sweetheart. What will you do, to protect your little BROTHER" I spit the word, and shudder "from being exposed for the incestuous, promiscuous, whorish little deviant that he is?"

And yourself? People shall do anything, to protect themselves. But this is my angle. This is my story.

~Tim POV~

The comfort of the gloves is infinitely useful when two minutes after leaving I am confronted by an absolute harpie. Vicki Vale. I remember the trouble that she caused Bruce all those years ago. And to some extent, Dick. And now apparently, she remains interested in the same blood. She was always a real witch, but appears it even now.

I keep my expression cold. It is easy to deal with vermin like her; show no surprise, show no fear.

It is difficult to contain everything however, when she mentions that she was the one to infiltrate Jason's safety. It is that moment that I want to rip every follicle of hair out of her scalp, and expose the lack of brain tissue between her ears. Fortunately, my rage is not displayed on my face. It is bubbling beneath the surface. Back then, we were dependent on the Golden Rule. On Bruce's approval. Now is very, very different.

She is playing a different type of game. A very dangerous game.

Vale hands me photographs. Pictures.. Damian and I. Crap. She would not dare publish them, would she? My hands start to itch. No, it is not technically incest, I am emancipated from the family name and we are not related by blood. But that is not the way the public would view it.

I am a good two heads taller than her. I step very close, encroaching on her personal space, fixing my eyes on hers. Anger is all she is going to get. Ice cold anger. "Ask your questions. Then leave." I state. We are a mere hair's breadth away. "And talk that way about either Jason or Damian again, and I shall personally ensure you regret it."

~Vicki POV~

I huff, although his...coldness is a little disturbing "Now, now, don't be so touchy. This is nothing personal, you know."

His eyes are like ice. Not like Bruce's, as I remember them. There is an entirely different sort of coldness in these. I...do not know how to describe it. Anyway. The show must go on!

This shall be somewhat of a test; I'll ask a few things he could potentially tell me without too serious consequences, see how much his sordid little affair really means to him. He seems angered over both his siblings, good. Excellent start!

"An interview, honey? Wonderful! Now." I whip out my trusty pen, suck the nib a little erotically. I can't help it! This is so exciting "First things first. Where have you been all these years, Mister Drake, and why did you leave?"

~Tim POV~

I wonder what she could possibly be expecting. My admittance to being a vigilante suddenly? Exposing Bruce? What a fool to think that she can get away with messing with this family. Once I have leverage, once I can ensure that neither Damian, Dick or Jason are hurt in the process, I will ruin her.

Watching her silently might unnerve her, but that is my main motive. I will keep my cool in this ridiculous confrontation that she is clearly very pleased with. "Bahrain and Japan. For personal reasons. " Curtly said. She looks like a child with a bucket of ice-cream.

~Vicki POV~

Hmph, I already knew that. Ah, well, no matter "Personal reasons, hm? So the rumours of a family schism are untrue, I take it? Odd, though, to leave and not return for so very long. By personal reasons, are you perhaps referring to the rather unfortunate..." I retrieve a crumpled sheet of paper from my lapel, and smooth it "'disagreement' which Grayson refers to here?"

It is a letter which, a far as I can tell, was unsent. I smirk "Grayson, the naive buffoon, does not see fit to shred unofficial papers, it seems. Or perhaps he was merely too...emotionally distracted to do so."

No reaction. My smile falters. He is like an ice sculpture! "And what of Grayson? I hear he is a vegetable. Severe brain damage. Not looking so pretty, either."

Nothing. Fine. Be that way!

"Perhaps I should refresh your memory?" I hold the letter up high, so that it's bottle-blue scrawl is clearly legible "What appalling handwriting. A circus rat indeed. Now, let's see... 'Dear Tim, I am so sorry about our disagreement last week. I know you've been getting my calls, but you of course have every right to ignore them. I-'"

~Tim POV~

She has intercepted personal mail. Or at least gone through our rubbish. That is illegal in three different ways. First bit of leverage. File it away.

"As much as I find your obsession with this family flattering, perhaps next time you could assist me. Should you go through dumpster diving again, perhaps you could remain there with the rest of the trash?" I do not reach for the letter. I desperately want to. I have many of Dick's letters on my desk, and am reading through them night by night, when I have time. But if Vale has them already, then there is no point removing it.

Dick won't have been foolish enough to write anything incriminating as it is.

The guilt makes my hands twitch. Do not move. Do not reveal anything. I am frustrating her, that I can tell. She will not publish the pictures if I piss her of - she will only do so if I do not give her the information she desires. And I know her obsession stems from Bruce. So my reason for leaving will not be relevant.

~Vicki POV~

Oh you vindictive little BITCH. You think you're the big man here? I have you by your tight little gay ASS!

"How very mature! And on the subject of maturity, let's talk about Jason Todd." my smile returns. Todd is a GOLDMINE, an absolute Godsend "Where to start? Well, at the beginning I suppose. With Peter Todd. Horrific story. Tragic. Those charges of sexual abuse, dropped, ignored, for 5 years! And because of the testimony of his Mother, no less. How awful."

I believe I spy a twitch; mmmm-mmmmm! "The police reports claim he was passed around a ring of friends, you know. On a drunken poker evening. Every Thursday. Until that day, of course. Now THOSE crime scene photographs? Even I would not relish publishing."

But the story, the money, the TRAGEDY! Those delectable little assets are worth a bit of retching, yes "And that is just the start! I wonder if you can clarify for me, why precisely a boy declared legally dead fifteen years ago, is now alive and drooling in Phoenix Institute? For the record."

~Tim POV~

It is... thoroughly difficult to listen to her list off some of the most personal things that Jason has experienced. The horrors of his childhood. I cannot believe that this woman would sink so low as to dredge up sexual abuse to be used as a weapon against us.

.. Actually. I can. She is a monster, more so than Jason ever could be.

My throat becomes thick. I wait for her to finish her onslaught. I wish I could just remove her right here. Knock her out, medically induce a coma. Kill her. Anything. It is not good to be seeking homicidal thoughts already, but I cannot help it. She is threatening MY family. Dredging up OUR secrets. And I will NOT stand for it.

"Medical miracle. " I say dryly. "And that 'drooling boy' removed your bug. "

She bugged the room of a mentally unstable man. Second piece of evidence. I will use fingerprint analysis later to confirm a match.

~Vicki POV~

Why of all the- medical miracle indeed. Cheek! "Yes, well. I wonder what the whackjob doctors of New York would say, at the rumours of his resurrection. Perhaps they would like to study his 'miraculousness'."

Nothing. I'll give the Todd line of enquiry one last stab, and then we'll get onto the really meaty stuff "Well then what of the MURDERS? It is common knowledge that Jason Todd is a murdering lunatic. As the Red Hood, I believe. Why, then, is he not in jail? Especially considering this recent discovery, of a double homicide from Fort Whaite, Texas?" a hispanic wife, husband and baby, awful, simply awful! "The fingerprints of Jason Todd were found at the scene. Were this to come to public light, I wonder...would his supposed insanity..." I smirk "which in itself, I have evidence-" I whip out my trusty tape recorder, play a small snippet of Todd grumbling 'I choose to be insane', then whip it back "-is bogus, protect him? And might I remind you, that Texas still employs capital punishment."

He's silent. Gotcha! "It'd be quite the controversy. The first man in the world to be killed, twice!"

~Tim POV~

Shit. What the hell happened whilst I was away? When he is a little more lucid, I might have to ask Jason what exactly happened. Or possibly Damian. Need to ensure that I either corrupt the data or destroy it.

"Most of the evidence you stated is circumstantial, as you are well aware. And it might be prudent, Ms Vale, to make up your mind as to whether or not Jason Todd is dangerous, mentally incompetent, or pretending. Such a divided attitude might not stand up if you were a material witness. " I can't show her how afraid I am feeling. I must not panic. I know that I can hack the Texan system. It is not hard. I will do what is necessary.

"Do these questions have a point? Or are you just attempting to bait me?"

~Vicki POV~

Got you, you emotionless little bastard! Ooooh yes, you're all composure on the outside but I can see you SQUIRM "A point? We're just having a cosy little chat, Mr Drake, no need to get so defensive."

I consider. Seeing as that worked so well, perhaps one last dig at our little oversized nutjob cannot hurt "As for witnesses and blah blah blah, I may remind you that the publicity and scandal alone will be enough to cast...doubt...over our little 'Jaybird', as Grayson calls him...? And whether he might perhaps be better suited to a more secure facility. I happen to know a most respected doctor of psychiatry, who believes Mr Todd would be less of a threat to the populous...in Arkham Asylum."

He does not even blink. Perhaps he does not...? How priceless! "Maybe you are unaware of how Mr Todd came to be at Phoenix? Quite the scandal. You see, in secret, your...Father...Bruce" aah, Bruce, my delectable Bruce "had him quietly sectioned there. And, well." I assume an expression of mock-sadness "you can IMAGINE what Gotham's very own super-supervillain, did to his former beloved DEBRIS."

Dammit, I didn't slot a question in there "Perhaps you can shed light on Br- Mr Wayne's- odd decision in this regard?"

~Tim POV~

No. Please tell me that she is lying. Please, PLEASE God tell me that Bruce did not put Jason near the Joker. He does not deserve that. He never deserved that. This bitch is seriously pushing my buttons. And I do not have the reserve to observe Bruce's Golden fucking Rule after hearing about such a thing.

I should really verify that information. "Bruce's decisions and mind are his own. I have no information concerning such a decision. "

Bruce knows exactly what the Joker did. He was punishing himself for years for it. He almost didn't allow me to become Robin because of it. He became EMOTIONLESS because of it, because he could not allow the same degree of hurt. How could he be so cruel? He couldn't have done that, could he? I have to find it out. File this away too. Damian might know. I resolve to ask him at a later point.

~Vicki POV~

"Hm. Very well then. Let's talk about the simply delectable Damian Wayne then, shall we?" I smile, lick my lips a little, because, damn "he looks so very like his Father, don't you think? That's why people are so eager to fuck him, or so I hear. Not as...well...as Bruce, though. Those SCARS. And the fact that he is an illegitimate half-breed mutt, as well, of course."

A corruption of my darling. A stain. An abomination! I'm shaking with rage even THINKING of his slut of a Mother "Let's talk about that lineage, shall we? His whore of a Mother prostituting herself and enacting legal RAPE to concieve. What a scandal! And his Grandfather, Ras Al Ghul, no less. If that got out, why, his business integrity, claim to inheritance, would no doubt be...well..."

The air suddenly feels really much colder. Or is it my imagination...?

~tbc~


	19. Chapter 19

~Prodigal Son, 18~

~Tim POV~

I can feel my eyes narrowing as she reels off the information. The piece she has prepared about why people want to.. fuck Damian, makes my fists flex. She is very, very close to my slitting her throat. As if it isn't enough to insult everyone in my family, to dig up information that is NOT hers to gain, she dares to.. **How dare she**.

Refraining from hitting her takes every ounce of control I have left. I am having to concentrate on controlling my neurones to stop me shaking from rage. Damian is not a mutt. He scars are due to trauma, because he was trying to save this fucking city! They are not a spectacle to be mentioned at the drop of a hat!

I do not like trust Talia, but she is not a whore. What does this little piece of shit know about anything? For all her supposed knowledge, she just twists facts into tiny facets of the truth. Every printed word is a lie.

"Ms Vale." I say, the tone of my voice having entered a whole new level of 'push me bitch, and I will kill you'. " It would be wise to proceed no further with this line of discussion. " The underlying threat is there.

~Vicki POV~

Ok, so maybe I am getting a little freaked out. He doesn't seem to be reacting but there's this ATMOSPHERE that I- come on Vicki, job to do! Pull yourself together "And why is that? I haven't even BEGUN on his sexual promiscuity yet. Boys, girls, drugs, alcoholism, those countless trips to the emergency room Grayson has kept hush-hush~" I tap my nose, knows, I am she who knows! "and of course: you. He's quite the little manslut, our half-caste Junior."

I tap my foot, impatiently, flick through the sweet slick polaroids in my fingers "Talkative boys and girls, mind you. There even rumours regarding he and Grayson, would you believe! Well, actually, I can. He really is his Father's son, wouldn't you agree? And Grayson always did seem a little squeaky clean for his own good. You know of the rampant rumours of child abuse surrounding your little family, don't you? Perhaps Grayson is a kiddie-toucher like they say. Perhaps that is why little Damian is so fucked up."

That...was a little low even for me. But dammit, I need my drama! I want a reaction, I want-

~Tim POV~

I feel my blood run cold. That fucking little-. I am going to kill her. I decide this now. She is going to die. She just accused Dick, innocent, kind, Richard Grayson, of being a child molester. Of sleeping with Damian. Even I, who have been away for a decade, know that Dick would only ever consider someone that much younger than him a child. He still does me! And I am less of an age gap.

I check in the glass behind her - there are no CCTV cameras. As long as my touch is not hard, there will be no bruises. And fortunately because of Damian, I am wearing gloves. No fingerprints.

I don't give her any warning. I slam her as hard as I feel like against the glass behind her. My hand is over he neck in an instant. Not hard enough to bruise, but pressing at her larynx. Suffocating, but just enough to breath. My face is next to hers. My eyes are cold. You pushed me too far, you fucking media whore.

"Listen to me very carefully. " I say, my eyes only inches from hers, the ice I feel in my blood projected through them. My voice is calm, quiet. There is no rage from it, I have purged that much. But to mess with a man when you have pushed them this far. To mess with a person who is trained, and much, MUCH smarter than you is a foolish move. Even for someone whose IQ ranges as Vicki Vale's does.

"You just insinuated that my eldest brother is a child molester. That the middle one is a murderer. And that the youngest is a whore. That is something I cannot allow to pass. I am not docile, placid or kind like Dick. I will not hesitate to make you rue this day if you do not stop here and now. And believe me, Ms. Vale. " I pause. "There are so many ways to make a person's life a living hell. The majority of which, I am more than capable of. "

~Vicki POV~

Oh God. I'm going to die. Shit! I hadn't- I should've- I didn't realise-

"You're as insane as TODD!" I try to scream, but it comes out as barely a whisper, oh Lord, fuck "Let me go! I- gkkk- have evidence detailing the murder of Tony Zsasz, pending in storage to be sent to the police in the event of my death!"

He freezes. Good, oh Christ, oh shit, now talk, Vicki, talk! "Decapitated, g-grenade in his mouth, Damian Wayne did it! You know he did it, YOU were there! He nearly killed you immediately after! IT WAS ON BRUCE WAYNE'S COMPUTER!"

He lets me go, I stagger back, back, trip, CRAP, get up, talk fast "Bruce! I want to know where he is! Three days, or you, the circus brat, the retard, the bastard, you're ALL gone! Understand?"

I run.

~Tim POV~

She talks, and fast. She has evidence against Damian. I need to find that evidence before I kill her. I need to destroy it. Vale keeps talking, threatens us. Big mistake, you bitch.

Then she is gone. I scared her. Everything has gone cold again.

I walk back to Colin's facility, trying to control my shaking. My desire to ruin my fingers, my gloves. But I will refrain, as they are Alfred's. Instead I count 1-17 in my head over and over. I itch my wrist over and over. It is a large scrape by the time I end up returning to the hospital

The staff are concerned by my lengthy absence. I force myself to apologise - Colin is just about to wake up. Fortunately I am in time to re-sedate him. The procedure goes on. I remove it, and test his plasma venom level.

I cannot even be happy when the monitor reads that there is no more venom in his blood. Damian will be pleased. I must inform him at a later point. I inject the last set of L-Dopa, and from this point can only hope that his mind can recover.

When I reach my flat, I shower twice. Then set up my computer. Numbly search for Victoria Vale. Locate her IP. Remote control her computer. I shut down all her file, and operating system, leaving a blue screen. Type across it "I do not know where Bruce Wayne is, Ms. Vale. That is the truth. And be warned, I am watching. "

It is wrong, and creepy. But this all registers in the very back of my mind.

Something pops up. I breathe a sigh of relief. It is Jason. Thank heavens. A link. I click. A video? What is he playing at?

~Vicki POV~

Fuck you, Tim Drake! Seriously, all my files, all my data, gone! This cripples my investigation, cripples! Well, at least I backed all of it up. Still, what a MESS. I'm in deep, really deep. Stay the course, Vicki. You're a JOURNALIST.

You know exactly how to get back on top. Mmm. I whip out my cellphone "Hello, yes, Gotham Nightline? I'd like a cab from 42nd street to Gotham Central Hospital, please."

~Jason POV~

Damo's gone, so me n' Dickie are havin' a slumber party. He slumbers, I party. Eh, well I woulda done, cept there ain't no hats or cake or anythin'. So I sit on Dickie's bed n' topple cos I'm big, n' make up egg puns.

"Eggcitin', eggstatic, eggstraudinary...egghead...yolk...shelly...uhhhm..." then I get bored, so switch riiiight on over ta BroCam. Dee-Dee's cagefightin'! Fuck yeah I LOVE watchin' this...

I can think of someone else who might tooo. Heh. Where's Dickie's laptop camera phone thingie?

~Tim POV~

I was definitely expecting some form of porn. Or something along those lines. Possibly a couple of pictures of cars, hubcaps or the hulk. But I was not expecting a live feed. Of Damian. In a fight. As if this night can't get any worse.

Setting it tracing does not take much, and I do this quickly. It triangulates Jason's signal, placing him at the hospital. From there, I find the IP, Camera and finally location. Time to continue saving people's asses, it seems.

I don some dark jeans, instead of the traditional slacks - a clean shirt going into an arena like that would be suicide, pure and simple. It is with distaste that I force myself to put on a slightly more fitted shirt. A dark jacket. All that abandoned training comes back instantly.

It is going to drive my insane, but I mess my hair just a little with gel. Just enough.

It doesn't take long to reach the scene. I am forced to take a bike. The gloves are welcome in this instance. As soon as I am inside, I realise the mistake I made. Thinking that Jason sent me the link for any useful purpose. Instead it is fairly obvious that he just sent it for kicks. Or possibly for torment? Has.. he worked out what is going on between Damian and I?

Of course he has. Damn it. Stupid sharp old brothers.

I linger at the back. It's cage fighting, and Damian is quite clearly in the ring, not getting his ass kicked. It is.. captivating to watch. The fluid movement, vicious attacks, strength and accuracy of each attack.

The sane part of my brain appreciates the skill level.

The uncontrollable part realises that it is the hottest display of power I have seen in a long time.

I am very good at self denial, but in this instance, I fail.

Instead of leaving, I lurk, and watch. Hopefully once he is finished, I will be able to get away quietly with Damian himself noticing.

~Damian POV~

"-FEAR ME, MORTAL! FOR I AM...THE PENETRATOR!"

Erm...alright. What?

"PERPETRATOR, Dave. Your Cage name is the PERPETRATOR."

"Oh. Righ'. FEAR ME-!"

"...I heard it the first time." I say, dryly, and strike at his throat. I love this. I crave this. It's like SEX. It lives in my veins, this.

All my training, the Assassin in me, it can let rip and fuck and fuck up and bleed and make bleed and rip and tear and BEAT to it's hearts content. I could've worn a shirt but why fucking bother, it's gonna get ripped off or covered in vomit and semen and spit and dirt anyway. I slam a high kick into the Penetrator's (heh) stomach, which doesn't even move, and grin until my face is split and raw and ripe. YES.

The rattle and slam of the cage and the wire, the roars, the GASPS, the hitches and the heavy breathing and sand and dust between my toes. The rrrrrrip when my jeans inevitably catch on something, and the chafe of skin against denim as I writhe under a pin against concrete. Rough, rough, rough. Teeth and tears and the FIGHT.

Dick knows. Makes me gives the prize money to charity. Disapproves, but doesn't interfere. And I love him for it. Love him because he knows I need this.

There's an enormous, veined, pulsating bunch of muscle in front of me. Hamstring. I fit my jaw around it and bite down, hard, then tear, feel salt and hair and skin give and bleed copper into my mouth. A roooooooar, loud and deep and right above. My skull slamming into the floor and ceiling and walls and wires. Ringing. Smiling. I flip his leg and pin, straddling just one thigh because it is so THICK, grind down. The count begins.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six-"

This this THIS. Having somebody's life beneath you and in you and end it, END IT- no, no, bring it back, count it back, Damian Wayne. Five. Four. Sweat and blood trickles in a congeal around my mouth, down my chin, and I lick, stick my tongue completely out, down, sweep across, up, make the tip of my nose wet. My forefinger has splinters of metal in them so I suck them. Somebody catcalls.

"-two, one. The Son of the Demon wins!"

I release him with a quick buck, slam my fist into the bars and listen to the raw and the rattle. Stick my slick thingers through the holes and pant at the crowd. Sweat pools in the dip of my shoulder blades and the small of my back.

Then I see a pale face, and my blood runs cold. Everything stops. No, what...Timothy...?

I jump to the concrete below in aa daze, elbow my way through the jumble of curses and hoots and screams, no, it can't be, here? Why-

"Damian-san!"

Oh, fuck, no.

"Go away Yagami." I huff, out of breath, shaking, shit "I'm...not...in the mood."

A flash of perfect teeth and glossy hair "Aah, but I make you in mood. You were magnificent. I jerk myself to fight and still want more!"

Ew. Crap, I almost wish I'd brought Jason. Gotta- Timothy. Find Timothy. He shouldn't be here-

A small, delicate hand slips down the back of my pants, and another curls around my neck, a fumble of Japanese, horrible, dirty "You're going to suck me until my dick is inside out, Demon-Head."

~Tim POV~

Damian's... style is unique. I find myself following each move, attempting to remember which martial art each move is from. Where in his training he would of obtained the move. I am trying not to categorise them for later... use.

And I am definitely not staring.

Not at the easy slide of muscle in each movement, working in conjunction with each other. Nor the film of sweat that covers both Damian and the person he is fighting with. I am most certainly not admiring perfectly symmetrical shoulder blades. Or imagining being pinned in the way the loser of this fight.. the penetrator? Perpetrator? Is. And definitely not imagining being pinned by a very naked Damian Wayne.

Who the fuck am I even kidding anymore?

Damian comes out of the ring victorious. Only to be met by some sleazy looking Asian man. I frown. I want to leave so that I am not seen dressed like this, but I refrain. Inch closer. Slide between the small gaps that the crush of bodies have produced.

It is when I reach the pair of them, that I realise the man's hand is down the back of Damian's pants. I react in an instant.

"And you will not touch what is mine. " I grab his wrist, break it, then the forearm, elbow. Jab the shoulder blade, and crack the collarbone. I suppose the day's events have forced me to violence. The thing that I do not register until now, is that I am relishing in it.

The man looks at me in horror, and pain. And I find myself smirking cruelly, for once in my life. No need to maintain being blank here. I seek three pressure points in quick succession, and he crumples.

Very, very satisfying.

~tbc~


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: AAAAH oh Lord guys and gals I meant the third of MAY :S what a stupid mistake! Have an extra long chapter on me ;)

~Prodigal Son, Chapter 19~

~Damian POV~

...woah. I should really be objecting. But Timothy...well he looks...great. Figure hugging shirt which curls around his abdominal muscles like ribbon, hair sleek and in just slight disarray- the barest sweet tang of hair gel in the air.

"T-Tim!" I did not just stutter; I am catching my breath. His face is slightly flushed and his eyes are cold but burning, like dry ice, like black ice. I huff a quick intake of breath and my nostrils flare "Wha...you should not be here."

I feel suddenly utterly dirty. And shamed. He will not want to be with- be here. By me. While I am like this.

"Come. I need to shower. S...stay close." urrrgh, my muscles are killing me. I roll my shoulders and wince, ball the sweat and saliva in my mouth and spit, quickly. The button of my jeans was ripped off during the fight, and so now they roll a little around my hips. I suck my knuckles. Drip. Shit.

Tim's presence is scalding at my back. I think he might be angry. The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

The shower room has just two showers, and is just that, a tiled, off-white room for showering with drains and gutters and a few teeth in the corners. Except, the showers do not work. And so I heave the waiting bucket of water up, high, and deluge myself in the flow. Close my eyes, let it catch in my eyelashes. Drip from my chin to my collarbones, then spill over. My stomach convulses at the chill, and I gasp. Shake my head like a dog, and spatter the walls, hair spiking.

I turn to see Tim, just standing, and cannot look him in the eye, so I stand too, and breath, hard, and shiver "I am sorry. I didn't mean for you to see that."

~Tim POV~

I watch carefully for wandering hands as Damian moves through the crowd. Should anyone else dare touch him when I'm in this mood, and I might be doing more than breaking and knocking people out. Something that Vale said tipped the world on its side. And I just want to get Damian out of here, and to myself.

It is difficult not to track Damian's hands at this moment, or his upper torso. Especially since it is so much exposed. He tips a bucket of water over his head and everything is accentuated. Dark, short lashes. Usually slightly spiked hair, now a little limper, plastered to his forehead. Musculature that is now glistening with liquid. It may be strange to just watch, but I do so.

I take off Alfred's gloves, and put them in my pockets. If anything happens between us tonight, I am not getting those precious items dirty. Instead I fold my arms. "Why would you be sorry? It was an impressive display"

I hold out the jacket I was wearing, after having shed it, for Damian to wear. If he is going to be walking anywhere, or riding on the back of a bike, he is not going to be doing it both wet, and shirtless. As much as I loath to cover such a thing up.

"You should have a real shower. And possibly stretch. " Stretch. Not quite what I have in mind, but a good pretence. I wait for Damian to take the jacket. "We can take my bike. It's out back. " It's not a question. I'm not going to leave any room for argument, because I want the still dripping wet man in front of me. And I am in no mood to wait.

~Damian Pov~

Stretch? Yeah...probably a good idea. I lace my fingers together and reach, up towards, the ceiling, feel the burn of bruised muscles burst and blossom from red to purpling yellow.

Tim offers me his jacket. Which would be a vaguely typical, gentlemanly gesture, but there's an intensity in his eyes that make it seem like some coveted gift. I wonder if it's important. Somebody elses...perhaps. Heat burns in my belly. I stare, unblinkingly, at Tim, suck my pounding finger. I shrug into the cool, slick of leather. Goosebumps rise on my exposed skin. Muscles spasm. Fuck, it's cold.

Bike? I didn't know Tim had a bike...interesting. I swallow, as he orders me to ride. I feel as though I am missing something, here. But he does not seem in the mood for conversation.

He climbs on and fires it up, violently, a deep, guttural noise. I smile, run my hands briefly over the leather of the seat and the sheen of the polished metal "Sexy motherfucker." I growl, running my eyes over the pipes and engines. I still feel...I shake with adrenaline. With bloodlust. I see the creamy shell of Tim's ear, want to bite and nip at it until it bleeds, quietly, into my open mouth.

I keep my hands clear as I slide in behind, shuffle my ass a bit to get comfortable, then realise, fuck. My button is still missing, my fly undone. I fumble with it a bit "Sorry..." mutter, fold it closed. There. I hope the open zipper won't dig into his tailbone too badly. There's a thin slip of exposed skin beneath his shirt.

I wrap my arms carefully around his waist. I...had wanted to do this. He should mind, but he doesn't. This is...good. I squeeze, a little, as the motor fires up and we begin to move. The ride is smooth, and the rumbles remind me of Alfie. I miss her. I shudder as the cold penetrates below the tarpaulin flap of Tim's jacket, and I huddle hesitantly closer.

He still says nothing. Does not even freeze up. I huff a long, hot breath, wrinkle my nose at the drying sweat on my face, making it crack. Tim is warm. His back is soft. My head is heavy. I droop against him, till our bodies are touch in one long sealed curve, and shuffle restlessly, ignoreignoreignore the curve of his ass.

"About...Yagami..." I mumble into the heady soapiness of his fitted shirt "I didn't...I mean...I'm not..." I sigh "He got me drunk, I sucked him once. I...used to get in trouble. Lots of trouble."

~Tim POV~

I can feel my eyebrows raising at Damian's… approval of my bike. He seems somewhat more docile than usual, despite the fact he has just come from a ring of fighting. I suppose it is the transition from adrenaline high to adrenaline low. Perhaps whatever I wanted to do will fade with the adrenaline rush receding. I admit that I feel a lot better for having broken a couple of bones. Something similar happened in Japan, when I was that tightly wound up.

Sadly the sensei I broke in front of a room full of people did not allow me back into his dojo. But I still don't particularly regret it.

Damian's arms around my waist are comforting. The warm of him pressed against my back more soothing than I want to admit to myself at the present moment. The stress of dealing with both Jason and Vale seem to slip away. I just concentrate on the pressure against my shoulder blades until we are close to my apartment.

It surprises me when Damian appears to be having trouble with his words. Maybe I underestimated just how much the fight took out of him? Or potentially it is just the neurotransmitters relaxing back into a sympathetic nerve pathway. "It was fairly evident from your body language that you weren't interested in that bastard. " I state, more viciously than I had meant it to be. Attempting to be kind to Damian just after destroying a man's livelihood. Now it feels more like Gotham.

I can't remember whether or not Damian understands as much Japanese as I spoke. Or if he understood the words. I kind of want to ask. I don't regret saying it; nor was it untrue. But I want to know if Damian is aware. "Just.. don't mention or think about him again, alright? " My voice lowers "If he comes near you again, I'll kill him. "

Well, that probably wasn't a good idea to admit aloud. Damian probably thinks that I am as insane as Jason, including all the problems with OCD. But for once, it is not bothering me tonight.

"If anyone treats you thus again, tell me. " Its another demand. It takes ten minutes to get back to the flat, and some negotiation to extricate both Damian and I off the bike. Two minutes to unlock the door and pull him in. I keep him close, for the sake of body warmth, and start running the shower to ensure the water is warm.

It takes mere seconds to strip Damian of his remaining clothes, and tug him into the shower. I am still clothed, but it does not bother me. The only things I remembered to removed were Alfred's gloves, which are safely on my desk. I scrub him down meticulously with a sponge, and my bare hands. Ensuring that all of the dirt and sweat and blood is gone. Nothing like an excuse to run hands down that kind of muscle structure.

I take my time, and get Damian as physically warm as I can. Once I am done, I pull him outside the bathroom, and wrap him in a warm towel (thankfully, the radiators are on). Hopefully he'll feel better to be clean.

But then again, he's not a neat freak like me. Perhaps he won't.

~Damian POV~

Treats me thus again...? "Heh. That's nice of you. Defending my honour. Makes a change."

He'll...kill them? That's...even nicer. In a sort of...hot way. It is warm. Very warm. And wet, but a different wet from sweat. I hummm against cool skin. Rest my head in a crook, by a chin. Catch the tip of my nose on the curve of a cheekbones. I'm tired. I ache. This feels good.

"Sorry I'm dirty." I murmur, and shudder as something porous with catching fingtertips run up, and down, my torso. Dip low, but not too low. I'm disappointed. I'm disappointing "Dick was never...ashamed...just...sad. Which is worse."

I drip quietly. My hands seem to be roaming mindlessly, scraping lightly across cool, soft skin. I bite down on an exposed shoulder, naw quietly, let my tonge dart out to catch a few stray, absent droplets from the down pour. I like this. I like him.

"Want you." I breathe against the small dip between ear and neck. To stay. I do not it fly out into the air. Want you to stay. Want you, too. I press him gently, flat against glistening tiles. Everything's wet. I slip my tongue over the ridge of his bottom lip, lick, slurp, nip, slip inside languidly. It feels slow and unbearable. Tense and peaceful. I flick along the ridges of his teeth, pool my tongue in his, and twist. Bump noses. Chuckle into his mouth.

Then I remember.

"Sorry." I step back and slip, slide, squeaaaaaak down to sit in a pile of flesh on the floor "Forgot, you like...clean."

His wet pants leg is front of me. I roll it up, lift his leg, lick a long rasp against his shin. Scrape fingernails along, then dig, into his thigh. I don't know what I want. I miss my cat.

~Tim POV~

I inhale sharply when I am bitten. Not out of fear, or anything along those lines. But because it feels good, and it was unexpected. Damian seems to be in a daze, so I am going to have to be careful of my handling him. The kiss is a little less unexpected, but gentle. Slow. Almost loving. And I reciprocate languidly. And am disappointed when he pulls away in favour of finding the floor.

Silence hangs in the air for a little, as I consider what to say, what to do. I want to assure him that he is not, as he feels, and that I may like clean, but I like him more. I remove the hand from my thigh. The sharp claws dug in only briefly, but it felt as though it was a little desperate to keep me here. I realise that it is not just enough to convey in touches, and caresses. Sometimes people need to be reassured through words as well as action; and I really want to be able to do that for Damian. It is odd that these realisations only come now, after a day like today, but I don't question it. I'm not analysing. I"m just following what I want to do, and what instinct instructs.

I sink to my knees, so that Damian is in front of me. Wrap arms around his back, and pull him closer, so that he is nestled close enough to just be slightly between my legs. One hand rests at his tailbone, remembering the reaction that I elicited last time; perhaps it will calm him further. The other one runs light fingers over his jaw, and cheekbone, cradling it in a gesture that I never thought I would be making again.

Funny how things change.

"You're not dirty. " The hand runs back down over his jaw, neck, collarbone, and then slowly makes it around to the back of his neck, caressing. I rest my nose on his cheek again, in the same manner I did earlier today. "And I like you" It doesn't matter, really, if Damian is clean, or not.

I lick lightly along his jawline, and use the opportunity of proximity to initiate a kiss on my terms this time. It is slow, and purposeful. Indicating the intensity of feeling, even if I can't admit it aloud.

~Damian POV~

Oh.

There's something rising in my chest. Something deep and between warm and hot and everything inbetween. Like thunder and lightning and darkening skies and sunrise. Tim kissed me. Oh.

And now I just want to fuck him senseless. I must be wrong. But he says I'm not. I am between his legs. I...

"I want..."I mumble into his mouth. I ache all over. In every way. I look at him, ask. Our eyelashes catch on eachother, and we blink, suddenly, snap. And now I'm shuddering with this...need. That's deeper than anything.

I do not throw myself. I push him back, firm and fast, push my myself in between his legs, press my stomach flush against his. I catch his chin and mouth and prise his lips open wide gently, and moan into his mouth, feel it echo around inside his head. I rub, slowly, experimentally. He shivers. I rest my hands on his toes, brush up over the fretboard ridge of his feet, to knees. There, I bite, and lick, and suck the cap of each as though it were a head.

He throws his head back and I dive in, scrape my nails up over his thighs then down, inbetween, to the soft, soft soft secret expanse of creamy whiteness, whiter than white. I caress and dig my nails in there, 17 strokes, dig, clench, WANT , 17, faster, dig, clench, ugh, fuck.

My lips peel along his chin and then nip along the column of his neck, lick a long line along his Adam's apple and shit, he's beautiful. And mine. And I want him to be mine. And be his. And take him and keep him and ride behind him on motorcycles until forever ends. Ride.

I slam against him, can't help it, can't help anything, WANT "NeedthisnowTim, FUCK. Yes...?"

He nods, once. I lick my hand, am liberal with it, slather it, and the wet is still coming down when I wrap my hand around him and squeeze, gently. Stand, shakily, like a newborn calf, using my thighs as a pivot, lever him up, pull his folded legs around me. I want to fuck him until he sees stars. But not hurt. No.

I slip one finger inside while keeping a soothing rhythm around his cock. 17 strokes, squeeze, a slight thumbing over the head. He's wet and tense like a bowstring, and I settle in, rocking and biting my lip, waiting, while stroking and working two fingers in, then three.

"I love you." I say, like a fact, deep into his mouth, feel him swallow it, GOD, then slip inside him with a sob that I do not understand.

~Tim POV~

My lungs constrict painfully. Heart close to stopping in its regular beat. Damian is watching me, as if waiting for permission which I have already given, and I don't breath. This is not something shallow that will just pass. Or lust. Damian throws himself into action, and I inhale sharply. Everything is shaking, and pounding, and the hunger I felt less than an hour ago comes back full force, coiling its tight grip around me, and forcing me to hold onto Damian tightly.

I scrabble for something to hold onto. Arms, shoulders, neck, anything. The sensation of hot, wet tongue shouldn't feel that good, but it does. I can feel the control I had a few minute ago when washing him slip away with the water. Running and circling the drain. My head hits the back of the shower, and I force myself to suck air in. I can feel my chest heaving with the effort. Somehow this is so much more intense than anything we have done previously.

All thoughts dissolve as - god, his _nails_and.. prime numbers. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can't think. Everything spins with dizzy pleasure. I can't concentrate. The amount of contact, and friction of skin against skin makes me groan. Damian's asking something. I peer through eyes that can only barely open to try and concentrate on what he is saying. Permission again?

"Ah.. fuck, God Please. Fuck me now. " I beg with a nod. I need everything he is doing like water. The ... the two sensations combined are enough to make me pant hard. My legs clench tightly around his waist, locking my feet together, and trying to hold on. I can't stop the noises coming out of my mouth, nor do I have the decency to be embarrassed.

I dig my nails into his shoulders hard upon his entrance. It is difficult not to clench, so I don't try and stop myself. He sets a rhythm, begins to rock, and just because of the angle, and they way we are... doing this, I can feel him jabbing at the bundle of nerves repeatedly. Stars burst in front of my eyelids, as my eyes are tightly screwed up. I desperately hold onto Damian for dear life, unsure that I could make my body do anything useful at all at this present point. I am clinging to his neck with one hand, and the other is tightly fisted in his hair.

"Haa.. fuck, Oh god, .. Damian.. " Heat lines my cheeks. I can feel every twitch of muscle beneath me. So close.

The pressure is becoming unbearable. White is gradually blocking out my vision. I curve my back so that I can lean closer. Reach Damian's ear, manage to lick at it. "I love you too." It is enough to send us both tumbling over the edge.

Damian's legs give out and we're once again seated on the floor. I pull off, and watch in fear as he cries. Arms enfold around him, to try and comfort him, not entirely sure what I should be saying. " Shh. Hey.. why are you crying?"

~Damian POV~

That is a...very good question...that deserves a very good answer.

I am a limp, boneless, helpless mess, draped across Tim's legs like a bag of limbs, sobbing uncontrollably. I scrabble vaguely at his chest, his thighs his knees, almost want to hold him, then fuck him again, then hold him more then FUCK again over and over and over until he can't even MOVE, can't-

Leave.

"Because you are going to LEAVE!" I heave out, half scream, half hoarse whisper, and find myself shaking and crying so hard that I cannot even seem to breathe anymore. My face grows red. My throat hurts. Pressure builds. I start to panic, clutch at his hair, his face. God. Why this? Why now?

Because I need him this much. And it is fucking terrifying me.

~Tim POV~

I stare in shock at the panic. All the pressures that we have both endured since Alfred's funeral have taken their toll, and this crystallises in one moment of unadulterated fear. He is close enough that I wrap my arms as tightly as I can manage around his torso. Hold him still until he starts breathing again.

Even if it is erratic, and scared, and most definitely upset. "Listen to me. Damian, look at me! " I finally have eyes fixed on mine. The terror in them makes my stomach clench.

"I am not going to leave you. " I state very firmly, watching him to determine whether or not he thinks I"m lying. "I'm going to stay here, in Gotham, with you. "

A moments pause. I press my lips to his briefly, running my tongue over closed lips. When I pull away, embarrassment hits.

"I.." My eyes are downcast. " I can't leave. Not now. Can't leave you. "

~Damian POV~

I choke to a sudden, shocked stop. My chest still heaves but it's dry, erratic, but slowing, and I look, hard, into his eyes, which...are no longer empty. I reach up shaking fingers, trace the edges, tease at long, sparse lashes.

He is not lying.

I cough helplessly for a minute, breathing deep, in, out, but his palm is firm and soothing, running along the ridges of my back. Stay. He is going to stay. Here, in Gotham. With me. For me. My chest bursts a little, and I...I let myself smile. A smile I have only ever smiled for Dick, even, a scant few times. The sort of smile that curls and splits your face unbidden, pulled by omnipotent strings.

I've been told, that I look like a different person. Different man. Dick had actually teared up, and said 'Look at you, Damian. You're grown. You're a man. You're happy, and gorgeous for it.'

I had kissed him, then. But it is different from the light press of lips that bring to Tim's, now. The curve is cool and thin, and fits awkwardly against mine. I want to live in it. I bare myself, and stay, because he is staying. Until eventually, when I yawn against his mouth and duck my head down in embarassment, bury it against his neck. And it is not a question of how long since I have been like this.

Because I have never been like this. With anyone. Not Colin. Not Dick. Nobody. Tim Drake: my dream girl. Somewhere, somebody up in the clouds is laughing themselves to immortal death.

I drape my arms over his shoulders, let them caress his bare back. My chest and throat rumbles. I think I may be making THAT noise again. I am wet and snotty and gross against his skin but he does not mind. I ache. I am sleepy. I am happy. I am tired. I...

It is very warm "Like you..." I yawn again, bite a little, lazily "love...you...really quite a bit."

I'm flying.

~Tim POV~

I really don't know if its a good idea to make such a promise. Nor whether I should risk.. the hurt that I did last time. Everything seems like a fairytale here; where family comes together instead of attacking each other, and people protect each others back. Maybe that was the way that it was supposed to be, or maybe it wasn't, and I am exposing a nerve that causes so much pain that next time... if there is a next time... I won't be able to get back. It was hard enough to pick myself back up as it was.

But regardless of what happens now, the smile I receive is worth everything. I don't think that I have ever seen Damian so utterly transformed by an expression. It lights up his face, dazzling; changes him from the young, sharp Damian that I knew, to the man that he became, with Dick's influence. The person that he is now.

He relaxes against me, and I spent a few more minutes running fingers down his back in long strokes, ending at his tailbone before starting their journey again at the top. We should probably retire to bed at some point. I still have to tell him that Colin's treatment is finished, but it is a fact that I can save for the morning.

Carefully, I aid both of us in standing. Because of the... location of everything, we are both pretty clean regardless of sex. I am satisfied enough to encircle Damian's waist with one arm and tug him to bed, leading him until we are both settled in the centre. My arm lays over his side, and across his back, intwining with his legs underneath the soft duvet.

I am happy. After this long, I am truly feeling happy. It is odd. But I like it.

And I don't want to leave Gotham. Don't have to. There is family here, and the thought makes me smile. It is the last thought I have before drifting into the safe barrier of unconsciousness.

~Jay POV~

Wheels on the Lexus go round and rooound...sometimes I wonder bout all th'childishness, y'know. But I like it. Never got it. Wouldn' get any notice if I was an adult anyways, so why fuckin' bother. Lots of people think I'm cute like this n' won' try to have sex with me, which is weird cos the police used ta mutter that they only had sex with me when I was a munchkin COS I was a kid.

I don' get it. I don' want to.

Duckie n' Dee left, probl'y to kiss n' stuff. I get a bit annoyed cos they got that an' I don' but they both still hang out with me so I GUESS that's alright. They might let me watch sometime, too. Yeeeeeah. Or join in I feel safe enough, but I dunno. M'poking Dickie's cheek. It's kinda stubbling. I'd shave it but I think I'd nick him, nick Dick, not slick.

They left me here with Dickie. No nurses, no nothin'. They're trustin' me. I like that. Like m'not a nutty nut nutter. There's a slam, quiet slam, the door, Duckie-?

"Hello, Todd."

NononononononoGOAWAY. I don't like you you make me see red and be dead GO.

"Hi, Vicki." I say, n' shrink little tiny like Alice down the hole in the hole behind Dickie, but then Dickie is Sleepin' Beauty so I gotta be a Prince so I get in front of him.

"I enjoyed our little chat the other day. Sorry it had to end so abruptly. What were we talking about? Oh, yes. Your Mother. Tina Todd?"

NonononoNO Dickie it's going red, make it blue make it blue make it blue or white like my hatter like my hat-

"You weren't very nice to me after that. Do you remember? Your darling little bitch of a brother says he is watching. Is he watching this, do you think, JAY?"

I hate you. I HATE you "You're buggin' me." bugs bugs bugs everywhere, in and out and shake it all about WATCHING "Stop it and go away, or Dickie will HURT you."

Dickie's eyes are movin' an' he's frownin' an' please please please wake up, Beauty, I wanna go home.

"You know, it's almost a shame. You were such a handsome man. So much potential. Now, look at you. Drooling and playing with toy cars and hiding under the bed. It's pathetic!"

I grab Dickie's hand and thin hard "..."

"Hmph. Insane freak. I'm going to talk to you very simply so you can understand, retard. I am in a VERY bad mood. So I want just one thing from you. Where. Is. Bruce. WAYNE?"

She gets right in my face an' I flinch even though I don' wanna an' did Dickie just...? "You're madder than my hatter, lady. Not telling."

She makes a strangley noise then shoves NONO the clown in my face, not the clown "Listen you ASSHOLE, I have evidence that will get you sent back to Arkham Asylum! Hell, I have evidence that will be get you EXECUTED! FRIED! ZAP, GONE! DEAD! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. ME?"

Then Dickie punches her in the face. While he's sleepin'. Pretty...pretty badass. But then she grabs my face anyway an' shoves somethin' down my throat an' I swallow cos it feels like a pill and EW EW an' not the clown PLEASE takeitaway-

"Fine, be that way. Your little homo brothers may be smart enough to check around them for my little bugs but they won't be checking IN you, now will they, you little traitor? And don't even think about throwing it up, that thing sticks to your stomach lining and will dissolve and release a halucogen if it comes into contact with too much acid. Put in your terms: hurty in your tummy make you go wah waaaaah. Get it?"

The clown is in my face "And don't even think about saying anything. Remember, I can get you back in a cosy bunker with the Joker before you can blink. Don't say a WORD. Shhhhhhh. Our little secret, sweetie."

She goes but I'm buggered and bugged and she bugged me oh bah humbug SHIT I can't go cos she'll hear everythin' I hear an' I can't say can't say can't say can't speak an' she sees into the wires n' the electrons in the sky FUCKFUCKFUCK get the clown AWAY.

But I gotta...gotta...need Dickie need Duckie need Dee come get me please but they don' know and I CAN'T...gotta. I'll...I'll...pager. Riddle me this.

'rhymes with Ric starts with V find the Key I pierced the Veil...my hood is red...Peter was a bad boy shhhhhhh stop clowning about boy, run rabbit run run run'

Oh...I should...

'Dickie moved'

Click, send, RUN.

~tbc~


	21. Chapter 21

~Prodigal Son, Chapter 20~

~Tim POV~

The peace of the night is broken by the buzzing of my pager. It always sits on the side of my bed, just in case there is an emergency. It has done for the past ten years. I pull myself away from the warmth of entangled limbs, and ist over the side of the bed, putting the light on to read it. Unluckily I have one of those pagers without an LED light, because that technology is the only type that does international pagers. It is somewhat of a nuisance.

It is from Jason's cell. Not another cage fight I hope?

As if we don't have enough disruption in our lives, I read the message. It is an SOS, and a very clear one at that. Fuck. What has happened now? If it is that Vale bitch, I will fucking murder her. Damian is still dozing, but I am awake. I grab boxers, pants and a shirt quickly. Shove my feet into shoes (although I very nearly fall over in the process of attempting to do it so quickly). I shouldn't have left Jason alone in the hospital with Dick!

Damn, why didn't I go back? I'm making the same mistakes over and over!

I leave Damian a hasty note, explaining, just in case, whispering what I have written, and then fly out of the door. Shit. Where would Jason go?

I am very, very fortunate that halfway down the road I see a figure running towards me. Jason's bulk is unmistakeable. I head straight for him as fast as I can, the blare of shouts and silence following him as traditionally it used to do. Reaching him, he virtually dives behind me. The cops are hot on his tail.

"Freeze Todd! Sir, step away from that man!"

The cop is waving a gun around in my face. Something I don't appreciate in the slightest. I do not move from in front of Jason.

"What is going on here officer? Why are you chasing this man?"

"He's a loony, escaped! Pieces of garbage like him need to go back to where they belong! Loony bin. "

I take a step forward, and stare at the gun in my face. "Would you please put the gun down? He is not going to harm anyone. "

He glares at me. But does it regardless. "What's your connection to this man?"

I raise an eyebrow. Time to pull the medical license card. Come on Timothy, some class A bullshit is required. "I am his doctor" The cop looks confused, worried, and then angry. He folds his arms.

"Bullshit, kid!"

"Would you care to look at my license?"

He doesn't call my bluff. "We gotta take him in sir. "

"Has he done anything wrong? Anything illegal?"

"Well, no – "

"Then there is no cause for arrest. In all probability something scared him. He has my address if something scares him so much that he cannot talk to his carers. " I explain. Sounds plausible. Likelihood is this is a beat cop and he won't check.

I am proved right.

"I see… " The cop confers with his partner. Eventually, they leave, once they have confirmed that I do, in fact, have a licence for medicine, surgery and psychiatry. As soon as they turn their backs, I grab Jason's hands, and walk with him quickly back to my apartment. Open and close the door.

And I immediately wrap my arms around him straight away. I'm a couple of inches shorter, but it doesn't matter. I hold him carefully.

"You're safe here, Jason. Safe. Ok? "

~Jay POV~

, lookout, duck! Get outta the way get away get away get away.

Safe. Safe. Safe. Timmy's got me an' the cops in blue with guns shootin' FUCK are gone n' Tim Tim Tim. M'wet, so wet n' cold n' sick cos it was rainin' an' I slipped an' fell an' scraped my knees, Alfred Alfie Freddy, come kiss it better, please please please.

"JASON! What are you...Christ...Tim, what happened? Why is he-"

Dee Dee is here an' his lil hands are all over my head an' my back an my shoulders but I don' look, just breathe in Duckie n' breathe out me heavy allover him, stick my face in his little hold neck and wanna drown an' disappear an' shrink to tiny tiny. Why am I too BIG for fuckin' everyone!

"Shh, Jay, it is alright. Calm down. Whatever it is, it's going to be fine." hands paw at my paws cos I'm fisting in Timmy's back skin too hard an' it prolly hurts so I let go "fuck. He's wet, freezing. Jason, did you run here? Why? What happened?" Dee's face comes round an' his voice is near my head "Talk to us."

Run run run as fast as you can, can' catch me I'm JASON FUCKING TODD. An' my face is wet but Timmy is warm. I shake my head hard an' smack my forehead against his shoulder, owwww, bony. No. Can't talk, can't tell, shhhhhhhh.

"You can't talk? Or you won't?" shan't can't won't CAN'T "Jason? Please look at me."

Nononononono shit fuck m'gonna be sick but I can't so I stick my fist in my mouth n' retch but swallow it down down down an' it's gross but she's WATCHIN'!

"Shhh, shh, if you need to be sick then come, come to the bathroom, be sick then we'll clean you up, alright?"

Timmy pushes at me to go but I dig my heels in and am a WALL cos I can' be sick but I feel so sick and fuck I wanna die an' cry an' I want Dickie an' I want BRUCIE cept I don'.

"Jason...god. Please don't cry. Tim. This...what is this? I mean this is really, really, a very bad attack."

~Tim POV~

Jason is beside himself. It is difficult to even think about how to deal with him, so for the minute I just hold on, and hope that he can remember how to breathe. What could have scared him so much that he ended up running away? He is safe in Dick's room! Or he should have been.

I should check the CCTV footage just in case. "I don't know. " I respond to Damian's disbelief and worry. "Shh, Jason, You're safe, ok? You're safe. We're here. "

Probably should make sure that he actually is first. "Hey, Damian. Turn up the music would you?"

I take Jason careful to sit on the bed. He is completely soaked, and his knees are ripped. "Wait here a minute" I fetch him some towels, and a first aid kit. The first thing to do is to try and dry his hair a little - which I do, gently, rubbing the towel through thick, dark hair. I then wipe it over his face carefully.

His clothes are difficult to peel off, but we just about manage. Three towels are enough to keep Jason warm, and I add a blanket over the top of his shoulders to keep him warm, or at least attempt to make him feel safer than he does at the moment.

"Ok, Jay, let me see your knees. " I am trying to keep my voice gentle. It is coming across more as tentative. I am very worried that something I say will set him off, and there will be no one to blame but me.

I wipe over the tears gently with wet cotton first. Use tweezers to carefully tear the little granules of rock that are still embedded in the knees. Next comes antiseptic. It stings, but it is better than nothing. Finally, a few plasters. "That alright? Is anything else hurt?"

~Jay POV~

Timmy mops me up like Alfie did...an' Dami turns the music up an' by that we mean sweep for bugs. Clever clever clever, boys! Now work out what's in my tummy and rip it out like baby please yes please?

What hurts...? Anything else? OF FUCKING COURSE I nod so hard my neck n' head hurts, then Timmy's hands grab my skull like Yorrick an' make me stop. I dig my thick thick thickie thug fingers into my stomach an' gouge, gnaw, tug n' pull, get it out get it out GEDDIT OUT!

"Jason stop that! Now! You'll...shit, he's torn right...what are you trying to do? Rip your bowels out?"

I nod. Dee goes blink blink whaa "Why would you...is something in there? Christ, did you swallow something?"

Not on purpose ya JERK! I roll over an' around on th' bed (smells like sex) punch at my stomach til Damo climbs up n' pins my hands away "JASON. Calm. Down. And tell me what's WRONG."

Can't, can't, CAN'T an' th' towels n' blankets let the cold in an' I wanna be sick but m'just making nasty noises instead. But then Timmy's arms are round my shoulders n' Dee's hands are on my head an' we jus' kinda...rock. An' I stop.

"There are no bugs, Jay. You're safe. Shh. Just breathe for a bit. Alright? And then we will find out what's wrong, and fix it. Ok?"

...kay...s'nice. Dee. Duckie. You're not Dickie, but you're...jus' as good. Family. Brothers. My lil' big grown up brothers.

"Tim." m'quiet so I hear Damo whisper "I think someone made him swallow something."

~Damian POV~

It hits me like a tonne of bricks to the face. All the pieces of the puzzle fit. Jason being paranoid. Knowing that his old room was bugged. He had swallowed something, and Vicki Vale was involved. He can't talk. Where is the last place on earth we'd look for a bug?

I press my fingers to my lips in the typical 'hush' symbol. Find my computer. Boot it up. Doesn't take a minute. Then I start to type. Bring up the font large so everyone can see, and communicate. If Jason's bugged, we need to be careful.

_Jason, did Vale make you swallow something?_He watches the screen silently. A very, very small nod.

_Was it a bug?_Another nod. Damn. That FUCKING BITCH. Calm. Now is not the time. We need to find a method to remove it as fast as possible.

_Is there a reason that you can't throw it up?_Another nod. Damn.

_Ok. Jason, we need to get you to hospital to have an X-ray. If we go there, I can probably get it out for you. _

~Tim POV~

Jason is against my shoulder, and I know that I have hit it on the mark. It just unacceptable what this bitch has done. And to incur the wrath of people like us is just foolish. She may admittedly not know that we are Batman's sidekicks past, present and future. But surely she knows what kind of power the name "Wayne " wields. Knows what technical skills we have got collaboratively.

Surely it begs the question, how could she be so stupid?

I pull up the CCTV footage, and watch in silence. Jason isn't looking, mercifully. I stroke a hand down through thick hair, and over the back of his neck to keep him calm. It is taking a lot for me to keep calm. I am unconsciously gripping at Jason's back, keeping him close.

Who would do that sort of thing?

"It is torture. " I say very, very quietly. "Jason. I'm going to have to send this to the authorities. Just to Gordon, alright? " And I do so. Take the video, reformat it, and send it with time stamp, location, facial recognition match, and the link to the original to Jim Gordon. He will not recognise my email as it is encrypted at the highest level. I sign it 'R'. It is not my role, but it is this family.

And if nothing else, we protect family.

I page the hospital. They send an ambulance along the way.

"You're so brave, Jay. " I mutter at his forehead, moving hands over his back smoothly, my worry only evident to Damian, who is directly behind him. The ambulance eventually arrives. I am forced to untangle, despite the fact I don't want to leave either of them.

I really don't want to let either of them out of my sight. I order the paramedic to pass me some morphine, and fortunately, she does, without question. My stomach twists. Yet another person I care for whom I've had to sedate.

The climb up the stairs seems impossibly long. Eventually I am there, and sit on the bed beside him. He lies in my lap. Another painful twist, but I am nervous for him, not for me.

"You're going to be fine Jay, you're doing so well, ok? I won't let anything bad happen, I promise. " I stroke his forehead, and push the needle into his arm. Gradually, his eyes close.

I attempt to sit up, but it takes a lot of energy to get him up. I look at Damian. "You do realise that you're going to have to carry him? I doubt I could even pick him up!"

~Damian POV~

I do not reply, at first. Breathe hard through my flaring nostrils, keep running my fingers methodically over Jason's exposed knee. Flat, and planed, with tiny indentations and scars all over. He is coated with them. Jason. Our casualty of war. Our guilt. Our redemption.

"This will not happen again." I murmur, fiercely, share a look so intense with Tim, that the air seems to sear a little "One of us, with him. At all times. I've had it with...with people HURTING him. It has to stop. It's killing him."

I brush Jason's cowlicks, always in place, thick and defiant and like inverted Devil's horns "You are going to be ok, Poco-Cola."

Tim gives me a disturbed look, and I clarify "From the Spanish, Poco Ala, meaning little wing. Dick's nickname. It got corrupted to Poco-Cola. A sort of joke, Dick's sort." Jason's features seem slack, but tense. Damn. This will have set him back months. Perhaps years.

His pallor and colouring and eyes are a little like coke. And he tastes like it, too. Yes, I...may have now officially comitted incest with every single one of my brothers. But, to be fair, one only has to look at them to see why. Besides, I- love them. We show affection. Sometimes, sexual, sometimes not. Speaking of which...

I grab Tim's chin and yank him down for a bruising kiss "I missed you like this." I mumble into his mouth, hook around his tongue and drag it into mine, and suck "Fierce. Coldly impassioned. Soft..." I let my hand creep up the marbled smoothness beneath his shirt, and damn, if I can keep my hands off him "NOT that I do not enjoy a bit of...hardness."

He makes a strangled noise, and I smirk, risk running my hand down to squeeze his ass before busying myself with gathering Jason up. I delay the euphoria that will follow...last night. Mine. Staying. This. Shit, Jason is...Christ! I groan.

"Damn, he's heavy. Even for his size and mass." It is not just the weight, but the sheer length of his limbs, his bone structure, musculature, skull...everything's enormous, and unwieldy. I lug him into a bridal carry but nearly topple over. Tim is smiling. Asshole.

"Get off your delicate lily white ass and help me, jerk." I hiss, and he is amused as he tugs the blankets closer around our brother and aids me in levering him onto my back "I do not see YOU volunteering to bear the lardass lump. Christ."

It reminds me. All that power, all that weight. The burden, and all packed into a body with such a fragile mind...we have to protect him. We must.

"Tim. He will be alright." I say, glaring at the floorboards. He is the psychiatrist. And I am not sure if I am telling him, or asking.

~Tim POV~

Damian's intensity mirrors my own. There is no chance that we are going to leave the most vulnerable, but most probably the strongest, of us all alone, ever again. Jason will have to be monitored at all times. Then, an idea hits. I pretended to the cops that I was his doctor. Perhaps…

"You're right. And perhaps it will be easier than we think. " I will have to research as to whether or not it is possible to carry out. Hopefully it will be. Hopefully, maybe, one day, I could get Jason released into my care. And then, he would never have to be alone again. We could protect him.

It would be nice, just once, for Jason to appear peaceful. Even in sleep. Unperturbed from the things that haunt him.

I mentally blink as Damian's lips and hands are against me. Damian is clearly not focusing on the problem at hand. But I find myself preoccupied with the smooth slide of tongue on tongue. Mingled saliva. I flight lightly at his. I think I just made another humiliating noise.

Ah well. The trust that we have just initiated, and the sneaking hand up my shirt is worth it.

There is something very perverse about doing that kind of thing near Jason. Especially whilst he is knocked out. My hand grips at Damian's forearm, the muscle underneath my fingers solid and reassuring. The difference in skin tone a medley of our combined persons. And as soon as it begins, it is gone.

Or so I had thought. Blood floods to my cheeks as I feel my ass being grabbed. I think I just .. squeaked.. from surprise. Ugh. I should go and drown myself here and now.

"But you were so enjoying my lilly white ass being here a few seconds ago " It brings a genuine smile. And I aid with Jason being loaded up like a backpack. I always find it somewhat ironic that someone so sturdy and unbreakable is so vulnerable. It is difficult not to constantly consider it with Jason.

"He will be fine. " I rest a hand on Damian's left elbow. " He's stronger than any of us give him credit for. And no one is going to leave him, right? So Jason will be fine. " I don't promise. That would be too cruel. But it is something I honestly believe.

"Come on, lets get him downstairs. "

The journey to the hospital is fast, fuelled by flashing lights, and a siren. I start preparing Jason for stomach pumping – not my speciality, but you're trained for everything. An IV is prepared. An extra dose of morphine.

When he goes in, everything happens in a flash. It is not a particularly long procedure as it is. The endotracheal tube is inserted. Jason is moved onto his side. And the contents of his stomach are sucked out.

Another doctor finishes the procedure, whilst I sift through the contents, finding the bug immediately. It takes 30 minutes to wash out the rest of Jason's stomach, and I leave before the end of it to briefly carry out some… unfinished business.

I hack Vale's computer. Take all her files off. Wipe her hard drive. Make the computer unusable, then paste across the blank screen "I see you. Game Over. "

She might have some information worth perusing through.

When Jason comes out of the OR, I go with the nurses rolling him out to put him in the room with Dick in it. Check both their vitals. Check the charts. Check the –

Wait a second.

There is a significant increase in brain activity. By over 70%. I think shock is written all over my face. Why didn't anyone page!

Dopamine could.. could.

It's possible.

I move to the cart in the corner of the room. Don some gloves. Take the injection I need, and insert it into Dick's drip, intravenously. Watch his heartrate.

Bradycardia, to tachycardia to... normal pulse.

Has everything worked for once?

~Dick POV~

It's like this car journey has gone on forever.

It's all I've been doing for that feels like months. Just sitting in the car, the Lexus, I think. Sometimes in the back, sometimes the front. My mind keeps telling me that this is odd, but that I shouldn't worry about it. That's what all the familiar voices tell me, too, not to worry.

Sometimes, outside the windows, I see only blackness. Sometimes midnight blue, and stars. Sometimes really odd things, in a flush of colour, and I get a sharp pain in my arm, and something cool in my veins. It makes my skin itch but I can't scratch at it because...because. Sometimes I see Gotham. Mist. Then, for a long time, a bright blue painted sky. And faces. I see faces, in the clouds. Damian's, and Jason's, and Tim's. Tim looks different from how I remember him, though. Taller, thinner, paler, older...and colder, at first, but recently, better.

I want to reach for them, but I can't.

"Why am I...in the front?" I ask myself, because...I remember, I wanted to sit here, to talk to Alfie, but he insisted, 'in the back, Master Dick. That is where it is safe, chop chop.' I swallow, my throat feels thick. Alfred is driving next to me, but I...somehow I can't bring myself to look at him. Why?

"I fear we may be nearing our destination, Master Dick."

I blink "That's good, isn't it?" I stretch, because I feel a little tingly, and the car seems to be coming out of it's dull rumble and shaking, juttering "Where...where were we going, again?"

Home. Yes, after one of those intolerably dull champagne parties of Bruce's...I'd had a glass or two so I called Alfred to drive me back. It had been a nice, balmy, quiet night. There was the sooth of classical opera playing on the stereo. I didn't have any paperwork to do, and so I'd turned my thoughts to Tim's gift, waiting on the dresser in my room. I was pleased with it. I hoped he would be too, but I wasn't sure quite how to...present it. Would he like red wrapping paper...? No, too much like Robin. Green too. Blue? Purple? Ugh...

"Do try to stay awake, Sir. You are a little too large for my carrying you to bed this evening." Alfred had said, wryly, with that wrinkled little corner smile, and I'd- I...

I...

I hadn't said anything. I didn't reply. Why didn't I reply? Because...because...there was a lorry, and-

"I am afraid this will be my final farewell, dear boy." I look over, and Alfred looks sad, so sad "Be well, Richard."

It wasn't a crash. It was the apocalypse. Screeching and tearing and squealing brakes and crumpled pipes and heat, and pain, and cold, and oh God, oh Christ, ALFRED, eyes glassy and empty and bloody and his body tangled and crushed and my HEAD my neck burningburningburning and I fly forward-

Up, up, out of the wreckage and into light. Am I...dead? No, no I can't be, because dead men do not choke on something huge and hard and plastic and struggle to breathe. God, ow!

And then it's gone, and I...I ache, ache all over, and it's so bright, and I'm still burning...it's all white...beeps, whirrs, machines...hospital? I'm in a hospital...? Why...there was something, something important, where I just was...where was I? My eyelids feel sticky, my neck feels cold and bare...did I have my hair cut?

And then, nothing in the world is important anymore, because I look up and see the most beautiful sight in the entire universe: my brother. Tim. He's here, and pink, well, white, and flesh, not made of clouds. He's here! He came back! He's safe, he's not dead in a ditch or rotting under a pier or chained in some dank cell but here, alive!

Relief and delight and love and thanks well up in my chest, which feels heavy and laboured and shallow but who CARES, because Tim is BACK, and here, and my cheeks split in a smile so wide it hurts and he blurs a little at the edges as I exclaim, hoarse and so HAPPY "Tim!"

I want to say it again, over and over, don't mind how thin and pale he is, how he looks worn and tired and frail, because I can fix all that, but he's HERE. My hands feel like lead but I manage to press my fingertips to his cheek, which is warm, not as warm as I'd like but warm "You're home."

And then I laugh, and it hurts, but how could I possibly give a flying monkey "You're home!" and I hold my arms out, and although he does not smile but falls into them and shakes lightly, I don't mind, just hold him, my brother, my little brother, whole and solid and safe and in my arms again, fitting back just as he ever did, and I press my lips into his soft hair and he smells just the same. A little soapy.

"God, I've missed you so much, little brother." I murmur, and laugh, a little burst, and it jostles his head under my chin "I'm so..so glad. You're home."

~Tim POV~

It was such a slim chance. The likelihood of being woken up by that kind of injection is so slim its almost dangerous. Almost. But I stand numbly as Dick Grayson, forever the most obstinate of this family in his own way, claws his way out of the prison that he has been living in – his own mind. His chest is heaving faster than it was doing with the intubation tube. His hands are twitching.

I can feel my breath coming shallower and shallower. It's been ten years and Dick is waking up. Itching at my wrist seems to just happen again, out of nerves. My throat is tightening; I feel a bit sick.

"Damian, Dick's waking up. " I mutter to the only other conscious occupant of this room thus far. I wish I could ask for something physical.. a hand, or a shoulder from Damian. It might be comforting. 17 breaths, then I hold one. Rinse and repeat. 17 clenches of my palm. 17 hopes that he doesn't hate me.

His eyes flutter open, blue as the day, and I have to force myself to move. I press his throat, and ease the tube out. He is breathing fine on his own. The crash cart is nearby just in case. God forbid that Dick crashes tonight after everything. I squeeze the IV bag to check that all of the dopamine has gone in.

I stand ridged. Unable to move. Fear for breathing. Fear for so many things. It was almost simpler when I didn't have to feel anything, nor contend with the fallout about any of the problems this family have had. I bite my lip as hard as I possibly can, and taste blood. It is just inside my mouth, and it makes me want to vomit as well. My stomach is twisting and turning painfully.

Stop focusing on the physiological. Dick is waking up! This is good! It means that you did well! It means.. that Damian and Jason will have their elder brother back!

A very, very small voice, almost inaudible, at the back of my head whispers 'well, what about me?'

He sent presents every year. And letters. He must have refrained from calling, as the first year he did it almost constantly. I must have ignored thousands of them in that time. The guilt that I haven't had time to consider crashes over me and I can't take in enough air.

I have to force myself not to flinch when he touches my cheek. My fingers curl, and press into my palms. I feel the flimsy white gloves split beneath my nails. I should be happy! I should be.. shouldn't be so deathly afraid.

Logically, he should despise me.

But in my years away, I must have forgotten that there is nothing logical about Richard Grayson.

The embrace is crushing. It knocks all the air out of my lungs, and I scrabble to find more. It is hard, harder than I ever could have imagined. Worse than seeing Conner. Worse than attending Alfred's funeral.  
This feeling of failure, of devastating regret. I'm shaking, and I cannot stop.

Three minutes, and then I allow myself to gently push away from his embrace. "I-… " Am glad you're ok? Am so so sorry? Hope you can forgive me?

Hope you don't hate me?

You may not right now, but then you recall my treatment of you, and everything.

"E-excuse me. " I haven't stuttered in years, but I do now. I have to get out before I choke. I leave the room as quickly as I can. I can't catch my breath. Damn it. Damn the weakness! Damn fucking everything!

I end up running to the scrub room. Sitting under the sinks, and hyperventilate a little. Cover my face in my hands. The shame of everything is almost unbearable.

My shoulders shake. My cheeks feel hot. I just left someone who just came out of a coma.

Timothy Drake, what the FUCK is wrong with you?

~Damian POV~

...crap.

Well, the world has officially ended. Because Jason Todd is currently the least troublesome occupant of this room. Granted, he's out cold and drooling a little, but nonetheless, the point stands. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hard. What a mess.

Dick, first. Dick, alive, and well, and...I am relieved. So relieved it is painful. But...I feel the compulsion not to go to Dick, but to go to Tim. And not to be held, but to hold. And possibly smack upside the head. I take a minute or two, however, to indulge. Find myself smiling as I only ever do with Dick.

"Hello, Dick. So nice of you to join us." I say, wryly, and set about checking his irisis, his stats, making sure he IS alright. He's sluggish, but his muscle reactions are good. Mentally he...seems...to be all there.

"How could...I resist...coming back to YOUR bedside manner, Damian?" he jokes, grins, pulls me in for a quick embrace, but his smile falters "He came. I'm glad, but...I think he's still angry with me."

I consider him. Consider the myriad of questions he must have. Of...Alfred. Tim. Tim. Tim. Jason. Myself. Everything. I put a hand to his short, very tightly curled dark hair. I've never seen it like that. Sort of...springy.

"For now, Dick, just rest. You need it. I will explain everything the next time you wake up." he opens his mouth to protest, and I give him the LOOK "Alright?"

He rolls his eyes, smiles fondly "Yes, Mother." he touches my cheek, that brief caress of fondness and knowing and brotherhood and family and love and fathers and sons "It's so good to see you, Damian."

My throat goes tight, but in a good way "You too, brother. Keep an eye on Jason, would you?"

He's tired, and clearly aches, but his face goes incredibly soft when he looks over and sees Jason sleeping, peacefully, like some kind of...well a bit like a retarded bloodhound, actually, massive and sprawling with mouth slightly open. Sweet. Good. I slip quietly out the door.

A part of me wants to smack Tim Drake silly for maintaining for even a second, that Dick Grayson could hold a grudge against anyone. But I can't. I don't want to see him hurt. Or hurting. If he cannot be happy, then he should at least be strong, and assured in his coldness. Although I would rather have him happy.

I duck down with a slight click of my knees, and wince "You know. We really must break this habit of hiding under furniture. It seems to be a family trait."

He simply shakes. Covers his eyes with his bare hands. He has not tried to wash them, and I am so, so proud. I retrieve another of Alfred's gloves from my pockets, and slowly, slowly, prise his fingers far enough from his face to slip them on. I press my lips to each fingertip, three times, before I do so. Then, I enfold them in mine, rub circles in my thumbs, seventeen clockwise, seventeen counter.

"You are both completely ridiculous." I grumble, and I would really, really like to kiss him, the wetness of his eyelashes making them dark, red welt-grooves on his cheeks where he dug his fingers into them, but I don't, not yet "He loves you. He has never stopped loving you."

I pause...look away "We...we all did some substantially stupid things." logically, this entire affair was my fault.

"I am sorry." I squeeze his palms, massage his wrists a little "I will not hang my head and profess guilt, because that undermines my point, but one could easily say that your leaving was entirely due to my intervention."

Silence. I...grow a little concerned "But...you've forgiven me. Haven't you? I..." despite the heaviness growing in my stomach, I lean in, press my lips against cooling tear-tracks, press them away in little bursts "Just talk to him. Say you're sorry."

You said you'd stay. And it hurts, and astounds me, but if Dick waking up means you won't...I...I just do not...I do not know anymore.

~Tim POV~

I am so preoccupied with guilt that I almost don't catch the footfalls approaching me. I want to be able to stop the tears, but that is too hard at the minute. I know it is Damian from the way that he treads. Almost too lightly for a man his size. The assassins training that I was so wary of in a previous lifetime, it seems, has not left him. But it makes him distinguishable for the rest.

How utterly humiliating would it have been to have another doctor walk in?

His knees jerk into place audibly as he kneels. I wait for him to do something, to snap me out of it. I half expect him to cuff me up the side of the head out of the exasperation I am sure that he feels. We are ridiculous in this family.

The motions on my hands are soothing. My tears gradually stop. I do not want to get Alfred's gloves dirty, or wet. The leather would stain, and would be irreparable. And thus irreplaceable. Damian is… so patient with my childish idiocies. Much more so than he is with Jason. He takes every precaution, and follows every measure necessary. This is just another example of that.

I take several deep, slow breaths, feeling them fill against my diaphragm, and being released again once they are done. Damian. My solace in all of this insanity.

He is concerned, apparently, that I have not forgiven him.

I don't honestly think I ever really blamed him that much.

It was annoyance and hurt on the most part. He was a little brat, a bitch with a loud mouth, but a child never the less – that was why I blamed Dick for so long. Because as an adult, with all that hindsight, he chose Damian.

I realise now of course, it was the right choice. But it doesn't mean it didn't hurt any less.

"Of course I've forgiven you, "I almost scoff. " I didn't even really blame you in the first place. " My voice is thick with emotion that I haven't allowed myself to feel in previous years. It is still a new sensation. He leans in to kiss my cheek, and I force his face otherwise.

It feels so easy now to kiss Damian Wayne. Who would have thought that a few weeks ago I would have been in this scenario. My hands clutch readily at his sides; I try not to feel ashamed. Slipping my tongue into his mouth is the easiest thing in the world to do, just to relish in a taste I find familiar, comforting and warm.

Eventually it breaks.

"So.. " I falter. "If I apologise, it will just be fine? Ten years of neglect, and Dick will just be ok with it, just like that?"

~Damian POV~

I am surprised, pleasantly, when he takes my chin and slides my chaste caress against his cheek into a deep liplock. I suppose I shall take that as my answer. His hands fold against my ribs. I want to hold him up.

At his question, I smile into his mouth, break away, stand, bring him with me, keep his hands upon up. When he is steady, I creep my arms around his waist, pull him flush, smooth his tailbone.

I rest my forehead against his, then tap it, three times, a very gentle headbutt "For a genius, your emotional brain is as empty as a flowerpot. And this is coming from me." He looks briefly indignant, and I laugh, and kiss him again, quickly "You really have forgotten, haven't you? He's Dick Grayson. Of course he will."

He knows I'm right.

~Dick POV~

Things seem really very fuggy. But I can wait, puzzling, as Damian leaves to retrieve Tim. I have so many questions. How long has it been? What has happened? Why did Tim return? But...well, it doesn't really matter right now, does it? For now, I can just lie, and ache, and enjoy being with my family.

Jason snores softly against my leg. I chuckle, then choke a little, and wheeze, because my lungs feel a little like jelly. They're not used to supporting themselves yet I...don't think. My brain feels the same way. I can practically feel the rusty cogs grinding. Christ, I'm old. 36? Oh crap! I might be 37 by now! Or even...agggh!

I bury shaking fingers in Jason's thick hair. He...seems alright, but there's something...well, he's sleeping soundly at least. Seems washed and fed and, thank God, clothed. Let's NOT go into what I call 'the Naked Time' in our little therapy history right now. Please?

I really, really hope I didn't scare Tim off, all the way back to Tokyo. I was just...pleased to see him. It's been so, so long...and...just to hold him again makes it a little worth it...

"Look what I found, Dick."

Oh! They're back, and Tim looks...tired and a little red-eyed, but I think I'll skip over that one. I smile, I hope, encouragingly, and go to beckon them in, can't, and find myself frowning at my left hand.

"Hey." I croak, feeling weirdly shy, all of a sudden, and use my working hand to pick up the numb, useless one "I kinda need a hand here."

Damian immediately facepalms. I shrug sheepishly. Tim's cheek twitches. I clear my throat, cough a little. Flush.

"Uhm, so...listen...I'm sorry if I scared you off. With...I was just pleased to see you, that's all, my bad." I raise my palms "Hands off!"

Still nothing. Damian frowns, and seems ready to give Tim a shove. But, that's alright, it's alright, Tim, I'm the big brother. I can feel awkward enough for the both of us.

"Thanks. For coming back. I really do a..." my head hurts, and I...can't think of the word...it slips like sand...ugh... "appreciate it. And- I hope you'll forgive me, not only for all those letters and bugging you, and- well, let's not talk about that now. The point is, I...kept up with you, Tim, what you were doing, your career..."

I wring my hands a little, then scratch at my neck, guiltily "With the medical degree, and all- I kept all the newspaper clippings I could find, Damian will tell you, pissed him off no end to open them up and find big gaps-" you're BABBLING Dick Grayson, get a grip "and I even, uhm, came to a few of your lectures, that conference, in Berlin? I was the, uh, moustacheoed peanut seller during the interval."

Damian looks sorely tempted to bang his head against the wall. Oops.

"The point is...you'll have to forgive me, Tim, but I'm so, so proud of you." I smile, a little uncertain, but genuine, because I am, so proud "of everything you've accomplished, built for yourself...it was all you, and...I wish you hadn't had to do it alone, but I think you've done...incredibly."

Silence. There's a sharp, growing, stabbing pain in my head. I blink, shake it, run at my temples. Oh. Ouch.

~Tim POV~

I should be worried that things seem so easy with Damian, but I don't. And the feeling of just being embraced makes me exhale in relief. I just don't want to let go. But I am being moved towards Dick's room, and Damian keeps close by until the last minute, where we should really pretend that we're not in a relationship.

Dick talks and talks, and I find myself feeling more shocked as he does. Just because of the way Damian and I are standing, I can brush my fingers lightly against the back of his palm, almost just to make sure he's there, and that I haven't been pathetic and run away. And there is no danger of Dick seeing it. It happens a couple of times as Dick is talking – about my career, bad one liners. All the things that I associated with Dick of then.

But he hasn't changed at all. Perhaps a little older, perhaps a little wiser. There are crows feet beginning to form at the sides of his eyes, and his expressions look a little more… 'distinguished'. The stress is formed on his brow, worry lines etched lightly as dust across them. Instead of Bruce's frown marks. I will probably end up with some of those.

It gets harder to breathe again at one point as Dick tells me of all the ways he.. watched. I have to make myself do it by thought, instead of doing it unconsciously like normal human beings. Is it even wise for me to enter into this family again if I'm this emotionally stunted?

I don't have much time to think however, as I finally notice.

Dick's hand being limp is the first sign of the drugs beginning to wear off. Then he absently brushes his temple. He is not going to last that much longer.

So I inhale long and slow, and move closer to Dick. I don't think I can hug him, yet. I don't know if I have that in me right now. But instead, I grip the hand that he can still move, laying my icy palms over his fingers. I want to bow down and beg forgiveness, or become invisible, or have the floor swallow me up.

"You were never the one who needed to apologise. I know that now. " I state quietly. Another pause. It is almost too long, but I am working up what shreds of courage and dignity I have remaining.

"I am so sorry that I treated you as I did. That I didn't stay in touch, or acknowledge any of your letters. Please, forgive me. " My heart is ripping across my chest painfully. But I can do this. And if I fail, Damian is there, behind me.

Another couple of minutes pass a little more comfortably. Then I feel obliged to explain what is going on. "Don't worry about losing sensation in limbs, or feeling headaches. I woke you up prematurely to ensure you maintained brain activity. So you'll probably need to sleep for a bit longer, and wait for your head to heal a little more. "

~tbc~


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Thanks so much for all your reviews, guys! :D I'm glad everyone is still so psyched for the story ;) well, here's some more funtimes before the angst comes back~~

~Prodigal Son, Chapter 21~

"Oh, Tim." I can almost feel myself tearing up, because I can feel the hurt and the guilt and the want rolling off my little brother, and it breaks my heart "I've told you this before, and I'll say it again: you have nothing to apologise for. Nothing." I wish I could hold him, like that day at the Lazarus pit, but if he needs his space, if he needs anything, I'll give it "You were scared. You were angry. You were hurt. You were protecting yourself. We all were."

I stare openly at him, lips quirked, and just take him in, being here, now, and it's wonderful. And- oh! Well. Wow. Hm. That's an...interesting development!

"And besides, you came back. You were here when we needed you. From what I hear from the nurses, you brought me back. You stayed." Tim did surgery on my head! Not sure what to think of that "And although I do miss my luscious locks, I'm eternally grateful."

I lower my head, wince, as it pounds, and Damian moves quietly to my side and begins fiddling with IV's "I only wish we could have been there for you, when you needed us, Tim."

There is a long stretch of quiet. Not...uncomfortable. It feels like something heavy has dissipated. I glance mischievously up at Damian "So! When did you two happen, then? I really must have been asleep for quite awhile. And Roy now owes me quite a bit of money."

Damian drops a syringe with a crash, and I laugh "Oh, come on. Did you seriously expect me not to notice? Please. I knew before you did. Watching you back then was like watching playground kids pinch and throw rocks at their little love interests."

Not to mention that Fanfiction Stephanie wrote, which I absolutely did NOT read. I don't think I'll tell them about 'Caught in a Batromance'. I do like Lady Gaga, though. They've really thrown a spanner in my 'beat up and threaten to shove kryptonite where the Sun don't shine with potential little brother partners' scheme. Darn. Although...they'd probably like that.

Oh, Dick, GROSS.

I look between their horrified expressions, and grin "You seem happy. Which is unexpected, but good. Really good. I'm glad."I yawn, and my jaw cracks, and I hurt all over "God...I'm tired."

The world feels rocky and swirls, but right. I have my...family back. It's warm. I'm alive. Jay's hair inbetween my fingers. Damian fastens a breathing aid over my rattling mouth, and I slip into welcoming darkness.

~Tim POV~

I don't know why I didn't expect Dick to understand. Underneath his personality, and childishness, he is a lot more intelligent than Damian or I give him credit for. He says all the things that, without realising it, I really needed to hear. He accepts that I did wrong, and it is ok. And he doesn't blame me. It is funny that a person who is your big brother for so many years as a child, and then not for so many years as an adult can force your brain to revert back to mindsets you had when you were younger. That they are the people who speak magic sentences, which soothe insanity, and can pull you back from the brink.

Damian starts fiddling with the IV, and I want to smack his hand away. He doesn't want to be putting anything in that back of saline. Really, he doesn't. It is only there to keep Dick hydrated as it is. I resist the urge. Because if I don't it might be evident to Dick that –

Damn. He knows.

Damian drops the syringe he was holding. I can feel my heart stop. And in a childlike motion all the blood in my body abandons me in favour of flooding to my face. Highly embarrassing. He goes on talking. I have never been more grateful to put someone to sleep in my entire life.

I make sure Dick is comfortable. Can feel Damian at my back. My face is still red as anything. "Um.. "

Wow. That was good. Say one syllable. That totally conveys how you are thinking or feeling.

"Is it a good or a bad thing he knows?" I find myself asking the air. It is probably a good thing – makes for a lot less awkwardness later I would imagine. Although the very idea of Dick walking in on us doing anything makes me shudder. I am glad that I skipped THAT part of being a teenager and instead concentrated on creating a company, and cutting into people's heads.

Perhaps I could remove that memory?

Never mind. The pair of them are asleep. And I feel so much more… relieved than I had been a couple of hours ago. No, even less than an hour ago. And Damian is the one that I have to thank. Yet again.

I am content the pair of them will be out for another couple of hours. Jason is doing well, and his vitals are stable. His drip is progressing slowly which is what is desirable, and for once, he looks calm.

It is ludicrous, but I am compelled to grip at Damian's hand. I even take off the gloves to do it. Bare skin against bare skin. It is a clichéd gesture, but I can't find it in me to care.

I want more. Soon. But for now, I just watch the two older brothers in the room, as passed out as can be.

~Damian POV~

The brush of naked skin on skin, of his healing, raw, vulnerable naked skin on skin, is somehow the most erotic thing I have ever felt.

I would say that I feel sinful even entertaining such thoughts in Dick's presence, or Jason's...but in truth...

I slip behind him, slide my hands slow down from his ribs and curving around to scratch an idle path down into the dip of his hips, and clench around them like handlebars, feel the pool of heat between them. I lean in and mouth wetly against the shell of his ear "I, for one, would be quite happy to let him watch, you know...Doctor."

I do not want any cliches, no nurses outfits or that bullshit. Just him, clean and smooth and simple and wet and senseless, in cheerily unaware scrubs. Mmmm. Who knew screwing Tim Drake would result in a medical kink. Then again, I have been growing...uncomfortable...between my legs whenever he concentrates too hard on an intravenous drip or an injection or...

I press myself into the groove of his ass, run the tip of my nose along the column of his neck. Damn. Forget Jason. He makes ME want to go insane just so I can fuck him sideways.

~Tim POV~

Damian had me at the word 'doctor', the lewd bastard. He is flush against my back, and my already frayed control is far far away at this point in time. I turn, and grip at his chin with two fingers, turning his face a little. I graze my nails against the top of his neck, and let them slide down to rest on his pulse again, the way this whole thing started. The other hand dips downwards over his tailbone.

"Oh dear. That isn't good!" I exclaim. "I'm afraid you're very ill, Mr. Wayne. You might need a full body examination. But I have a slot open, so we can get started right away." I can't help the smirk that leaks onto my face. I knew that Damian had a bit of a medical kink, but this has only just reinforced it. And with my.. now intimate knowledge of this hospital, its rooms and.. implements. I know exactly where to go.

OR13 hasn't been used for a while. There are still surgical tools there, but it has been all but abandoned, due to the lack of funding to keep it operational. I am leading Damian in there by one wrist, and tug him in sharply.

Good, there is an operating table. And hand restrains. Just what I needed.

"Strip. " I instruct, and Damian does. Slowly. I regard every aspect of his gradually revealed physique with almost clinical accuracy. Each muscle and tendon categorised in my head. The shirt is peeled off from his skin tantalisingly and I watch in fascination. He uses his fingers to start moving the jeans off. They leave nothing to the imagination, as they are mine, and thus too tight for him. I want muscled thighs to be at my mercy. I wonder what cold instrument I could use there.

The jeans are not coming off fast enough for my liking. "I do not have all day. I'm a very busy man. " I sound angry, but the display is enough to turn up the heat by several degrees. Both internally and externally. Impatience, however, gets the better of me.

I push him against the operating table, and pull them down in a quick motion, running my fingers along the insides of his thighs, and just around him, the only things between that and my fingers being cotton thin boxers. Another light shove, and he is forced to sit on the ice cold, metal table.

The box of gloves is conveniently at the end, and I pull a pair of surgical gloves on with a sordid snap at each wrist. "Now. Do you care to tell me precisely what is wrong. " The scrubs are beginning to chafe a little. But it is definitely worth it for the close to naked image of Damian I am getting at this present moment in time.

And, I enjoy a challenge.

~Damian POV~

...Mister Wayne?

FUCK that is kinky in so very, very many way. I am not sure that I have a Doctor kink. Just a...Timothy Wayne kink. Or is it still...Drake? Hm. I think I am shaking, just a little, and the SNAP of those gloves, nggg, God.

I have an idea. It is a gamble. But if I am entirely sincere in it, it may work. I lower my eyes, shift my weight a little, rock my hips, then glance up through thick lashes, slip the head of my thumb into the bow-groove of my lips, and lick it, idly, in little laps, around, and over, then let it slip inside and SUCK.

I cock my head to the side and smirk with somewhat faux shyness "Well, Doctor Drake...I seem to have a rash in a...rather compromising place."

I slip my thumb out of my mouth in a heavy, wet, slapping pop, and with saliva slicking my lips I lean in conspiratorially close, flick my gaze to, and from, his eyes to the red of his lips "I...hope you can be..." so close, so close my breath makes his nostrils flare "discreet, Sir."

I take his hand, turn it over, grate my teeth along his wrist "Here, take a look." I guide his rubbered hand down from my sternum, over the bumps of my navel, watch goosebumps rise and muscles squirm at his touch, then leave it, teetering with fingertips just slipping beneath the elastic of HIS boxers. Then, I arch against him, stick all four of the fingers on my left hand into my mouth, then run them idly along the raised patterns of my scars, lick my lips.

I allow my cheeks to flush, let my eyes slip to half mast "And, I think I may be developing a fever." I quicken my breathing, and the swell of my chest rises to meet the barrier of his scrubs "I get so..." I do not touch his hand, but slide my own two carefully around it, down, low, lower, bite my lip in one, slow, scrape.

Then, I jerk, suddenly, arch completely flush against him, and throw my head back "Nggg, ow. S-Sorry, it's so...tender."

Weeell...it is more subtle than bending over and demanding an immediate rectal exam. Which I may do, yet. We'll see. Your move, Doctor.

~Tim POV~

I find myself fixing on exactly what he is doing to his thumb. The tender strokes of a pink tongue coming out to greet the skin, languidly encircling and - Damn. Distracted. I am sure that was the aim of the game. Except what he does next throws me for a loop.

Playing patient are we?

Although the blush, and the lashes, and ... god, his hands in his own boxers, are nearly enough to give up any pretence and push him straight down on the table. I just about manage not to. But it is a very close call. Instead I pull out both of his hands, and tutt. "Tsk. You're not a very good patient are you? What part of, let the doctor do his job, don't you understand?" I use both hands to push him roughly down onto the table, moving around quickly to get the leather restrains around each of his wrists. This is going to force me to climb on top. And I don't really mind.

I leave him for a moment to fetch a pair of surgical scissors, starting with the right leg, and cutting through the boxers slowly and deliberately. I ensure that the cold, cold metal slides up his thigh as I do so. "We may have to even disinfect it first, for me to take a look at it. " I can feel the amusement from this whole scenario seeping into my voice. Doesn't mean I'm not incredibly aroused at the sight of Damian splayed on an operating table, restrained, and completely at my mercy.

Damian is free of the material, and I slide up onto the operating table, kneeling between his legs. I run a gloved finger from his ankle to the very top of his thigh, lightly tracing around the base to get to the other side. "Definitely needs thoroughly disinfecting I'm afraid. " I begin by licking slow, languid lines up from halfway up his right thigh, enjoying the feel of the smooth skin beneath my tongue. It is all too easy to flick over the crease between his pelvis and the very top of his gratilis muscle. To continue the path. To reach Damian's head, and lightly enclose lips around it, only very gently sucking at the skin and nerves beneath it.

I keep my eyes on him. Any reaction, anything at all. And I want to be able to see it.

~Damian POV~

"F-Fuck..." Is all I manage to grit out, writhing and arching into his mouth because CHRIST, the table is a metal cold burn and his mouth is slick and hot and shitshitshit suck me now, Tim.

I moan, long, deep, guttural, and throw my head back and let out a stream of pants interspersed with Arabic "Suck me suck me DRY like the desert, lover, suck me fuck me love me brother, my only, PLEASE"

I can FEEL his smirk around my base, DAMMIT you ASSHOLE "Ngggh, Doctor, please...I'm bad, so bad, so dirty...make me clean...cure me..."

He has not secured my legs. I strain at the leather at my wrists with a slick and a rattle, lick my lips and splay my legs, let them sliiiiide up over and across his shoulders, let my thighs clench, and unclench, pant harder, pant faster, pull myself free of his mouth with a wet pop, and slip myself down along the table to rest, rocking desperate and hot against the tightness in his thin scrubs, push, tease, squeeze, clench.

Folded double beneath him with my legs thrown up, feet crossed and caressing the back of his neck, and thank FUCK Dick Grayson and his stupid FUCK FUCKING acrobatic tutorials.

I lean up and gasp, half playing, half serious, against his cheek "I'll be good for you, Doctor..." I close my eyes with a brush of lashes on skin "don't make me BEG you to fuck me til I bleed, Tim."

~Tim POV~

The arabic burns my ears, and sends uncontrollable heat rocketing through me. The low, guttural sounds are music to my ears. And the sheer... dirt of the words uttered is just the hottest thing. I move my mouth a little lower down on him, licking the underside with my tongue. Apparently, Damian has other ideas. His legs careen upwards, and I feel myself shiver.

The start of fast, hot contact between us have me moving with him. Fuck, that's just.. God. I find himself grinding back against him, one hand gripping a thigh so that I can keep some vague form of concentration. Although admittedly it is not working particularly well.

"Hmm. I don't know. Begging might do you some good. " I press three fingers to his lips, and make quick work of the scrubs bottoms. They are easy to get rid of. Hm. Might even keep the top on.

Damian lavishes each digit with attention, ensuring that all three are slick as anything. It is very difficult to hold back any indication of just how good his tongue feels on each sensitised fingertip. Soon I pull them out of his mouth, and glide the un-moistened fingers down his chest, past his cock, and slip two unrelenting inside. I scissor lightly and explore, and absolutely relish in watching him squirm.

~Damian POV~

God I just-

I've been so...ngg, fuck...in control, fighting, all my life never...GOD...never letting anyone near or trust them that...I just want to be broken in two and FEEL him inside of me, in me and around me and with me-

I...

I think I said that aloud...

I have no hands so I whimper, spear and grind and force myself down on his fingers, the scrape of his nails in me hitting just THERE and stars burst in my vision "Please. I need to feel that...you...I want you, I need you, so much, and...I want...show me...you do too, because...I am in this so FUCKING deep-" I choke, want him to fuck me then kiss me then hold me "Tim...I...make me yours...please."

~Tim POV~

His words make me pull out my fingers sharply. I use saliva as lubrication, preparing as quickly as I can, and pushing in without any warning. I am close enough to be able to shut him up with a kiss, allowing 11 seconds for adjustment. I keep still a little longer, nuzzling a little at his cheek, and trying to ignore the pressure that is making me go insane.

"Damian. " I mutter calmly against the base of his ear, biting it sharply, and licking away the pain. "You already are mine." And with that I start to move. I grasp both his hips for stability, and set a rhythm. A little faster than I hand intended to, but Damian needs this more than he would usually allow himself to show. With the events of the past couple of days, everything is just emotionally raw. And this translate into my movement.

I pull his legs just a little higher, my fingers raking just under his thighs, adjusting the angle, and plunge in deeper. Move faster. Thrust harder. He is panting, and I am losing every single form of control I ever had. "Fuck. .. " I find myself breathing, the pressure and sensation of being tensed against, and it builds until we're both at breaking point. The ecstasy in Damian's face as he loses it is incredible to behold. And a particularly tight clench and I am shoved over the edge, the wave of pleasure white across my eyes.

Everything quickly fades into shuddering breaths. I pull out, and crawl up his chest, until I am rested almost face to face.

"Listen well. I have said it before, I will say it again. I love you. And I do not say those words lightly. I love you, Damian Wayne. You're mine, and don't ever doubt otherwise. "

~Tim POV~

It's not warm. Or comfortable. It is cold and the burn of the metal is excruciating against my back, yet I'm smiling. A small upturn of lips. And I feel...peace.

"I...believe you." I murmur, run my fingers with languid, almost disbelieving euphoria, of his cheeks, his neck, his nose "I believe you."

I have a place. A place that is for me first, to come first. For me only. Nobody else can have it. Nobody else can have him. I...I swear it. I will swear it. I cup his face, and think, how did it come to this, from rage and words and punches, to THIS, this thing that I crave and weighs on me so much I can barely breathe.

"Then if you say I belong at your side, Timothy Jackson Drake, then I will stay there." I bite my thumb with my right incisor, until it blossoms and bleeds, and smear the stain copiously at the left crook of his mouth, the revered gesture of the binding of my Mother's world, as "If I am to give myself to you, I shall give and show all of myself to you."

I want this. I am not even scared anymore. I press my lips to his, bite, carefully, gently, shhhhh him when it drips coppery succour into my mouth, one drop, two, three "Mine. Yours."

I couldn't live without him, now, having known what it is to be with him. I've sworn it. But it was true, anyway. I lay back, yawn, and pull him closer, nestled between my legs. I will stick my head in a bucket of water and drown of embarassment, later.

~Tim POV~

The words make me shiver. I peel off my gloves and flick them somewhere, not really caring where they land. It is comforting to once again have a human pillow. I trace lazy circles over the top of his chest, skin on skin, up and down the scars. Our two weaknesses have contact - collide together, and we fit together in a euphony of similar size - abdominal to abdominal. Damian is only a little taller than me anyway, and it is noticeable.

I very nearly fall off however, when there is banging on the glass. I flinch, and end up trying to hide a little the fact that I am a little less naked than Damian is, although it is fairly evident what we have just been doing.

It is Jason. Who has breathed on the window, and written in the steam "Dickie can't breathe. " That is enough to get us up faster than anything.

Although Damian no longer has boxers, he still has most of his clothes, and I have my scrubs bottoms, which we change into rapidly, having rolled off the OR table. I don't give any thought to cleaning up the mess yet, because Dick comes first. Always.

We bolt down the corridor as soon as we are clothed. There is the dangerous beeping of machines going haywire. Jason is hot on our heels (he really shouldn't be out of bed at all! Or moving around! But I am glad that he found us, regardless of the embarrassment.

Dick has his head in his hands. He is struggling to breathe. Crash cart is near me, I will sedate him if I have to. I place hands both sides of his shoulders, and dip my head a little so that he can see me. "Dick. Dick! Calm down. You have to calm down! Breathe! Or we're going to have to intubate you again. " That is not working. Damn it!

I strap the spare oxygen mask to his face, turning up the concentration. He's going to probably need that for a few minutes, and extra oxygen makes people calm down as it is.

"Dick, we're here, ok? Whatever it is, we're here. Just please, breathe slowly. Take in deep breaths. "

~Dick POV~

Don't tell me to be calm, dammit, I am calm! Alright, maybe not so much, but I'm not...panicking. Or at least I didn't mean to. And my little brothers have clearly just been getting hot and heavy but I think I'll ignore that for now.

"Dick? Once you're ok to talk, tell us what happened." Damian says, firmly, a hand rubbing circles inbetween my shoulder blades, and that and the blessed flow of sweet air being pushed back into my sore lungs is BLISS "Jason? Can you tell us what happened?"

Jay just shakes his head, comes and drapes his arms across my legs, staring at me. I tap his nose, shakily, and fondle at his cowlicks. I'm alright, little wing. Alright. Just...dammit, so weak. And shocked. I can't...

Just breathe. I do, for as long as I can, until I feel less starved and more just pathetic "I asked..." Tim judges and alternates, pushing the mask off, and on, my face; I draw in a deep whoop "the nurse, because, I had a dream, and I remembered..."

I stare between the two of them, feeling like my chest is tearing in two for more reasons than one, remember the car and that long drive I never wanted to end "The crash...Alfred?"

Their silence is all I need. Alfred. My rock. Our kindly old sentinel, good, kind, wrinkled, gentle, eternal Alfred. Gone. Just...vanished. How can he have? He was always there. He always would be. He had to be. All my...memories, the mansion, the bruised knees, midnight snacks...God...Alfred...

"No. Not Alfred." I say, not disbelieving, not angry, just wretched, and empty, and I don't sob, but I let the tears well up and pour, dammit, I'm terrible when it comes to this, my eyes are like fountains and Christ, Alfred, NO "It's not fair." Tim takes the back of my head gently and tilts it back, and I choke a little into the mask, close my eyes, for a second, see his face, wry smile, split seconds, before- the mask is removed and I gasp, and rub my eyes, draw myself up "Dammit, I...I'm sorry, listen to me, moping on about myself, when all of you...I'm so sorry I wasn't here."

I take Damian's hand, and Jay has crept up the bed obediently to wrap his enormous arms around my waist and bury his nose in my stomach, and I look to Tim, don't touch, but want to, want to gather them all to me and WEEP.

"Is...did you bury him?" my hospital gown is starting to grow almost heavy with damp. Damian swallows, hard, and nods, just once. I nod back, then again, not sure, how to...the grief swells up and snarls around my heart and CLENCHES and I choke, again, get a mask to the face, again "G...good. Well done. I-"

"What do you remember about the crash, Dick?" Damian asks, and Tim frowns at him, but I wave it off.

"I...we were driving home. One of the Inc's stupid cocktail parties. I...damn...I wanted to sit in the front, but Alfred made me..."

"If you had sat in the front, you'd be dead right now." Damian says, and to anyone else it would seem cold, unfeeling, but I see the widening of his eyes, and squeeze his hand, and shake a little. Dead. Dead like Alfred. Gone.

Gone.

"Dear Lord!" I sit up suddenly because, oh shit, I just thought "Damian, you nearly came along to that- Christ, you wouldn't have LISTENED, you'd have sat in the front and you-"

"Dick." his hands find my face, and now I think I really might be panicking, a little, just a little, crud "No what-if's, please. I am fine."

But I, I can't, I can't calm down, I can't, and my chest heaves and the mask isn't helping "But...we could ALL be dead! And Jay, Jay, he'd have been alone! Oh GOD-"

"DICK!"

I curl over myself and finally, pathetically, let the sobs consume me, wheeze and ignore the scrabble and tug of limbs around me, the soft pats and noises of calm, because Alfred is gone, gone, GONE.

"Alfred..." I shake until I hear my bones rattle in my skin, and let the tears come, and feel terrible for it "Alfred..."

~Tim POV~

To see Dick of all people in such disarray – so upset, brokenly crying, makes my heart want to break. To shatter into a thousand pieces, pick them up and put them in a bucket to give them to him, if it would serve as any comfort. I always knew that Dick would take Alfred's death the hardest ; he knew him the longest, and although Alfred was a father to all of us, he was particularly special to Dick. And now… Dick can't breath, is trying to be strong, and its just.. too much.

We've never have any luck with anything, that much is for sure. But it just feels like everything is constantly on our backs. The world flaying us alive until we're nothing but flesh, bone and neurones.

I have to alternate between allowing the oxygen mask on and off. His panic, his sadness, makes me want to cry for him. He grieves for all the world to see, without any shame. And all the world want to comfort him. How could any person watch Dick Grayson cry, and not want to?

He panics again, at the thought of having lost Damian, and even I find myself concerned. But it is past, and cannot be changed.

I can't let Dick just sit there and sob without anything to hold on to. And I do not like physical contact, but this is no longer about me. I just want to do anything I can to help. I sit on the bed, and pause. Take a deep breath again. You can do this, its just a hug. Come on.

I hesitantly wrap my arms around Dick's shoulders and pull him closer. It almost feels more natural than anything else that I have done today, and sings of a past memory, when I was as confused and lost as Dick is now. As sad as Dick is now.

We rock gently as I rub his back, and I can only hope this serves as comfort for him. He is making my scrubs very, very wet indeed, but it is so much healthier to grieve like this. I wonder what it would be like if either Damian or I could do so. To cry openly.

But that is the thing about Dick. Only he can do it.

"Shh, we're here, Dick. We're here. You're not alone. " I know its not consolation, but it is better for him to know. Especially after losing yet another member of this family.

I let him sit there for a long time, just holding him. It definitely feels odd to be repeating actions that were carried out decades ago. And I am distinctly uncomfortable allowing someone who is not Damian physicality for that long. But its Dick. So I might as well get used to it now, rather than later.

Eventually his breathing slows, just a littler. He is still crying, but it is not going to be a damage to his health and recuperation time.

~Dick POV~

I let it all crash over me. Wave after wave of memories, feelings, thoughts, regrets, I let them all hit me and lean my forehead against Tim's shirt (I'll buy him a new one, lots) and try not to let the guilt strangle the release. I am an adult, but...even adults grieve.

"I'm going to miss him." I gasp, around the mask, and fist my hands in Tim's shirt and Jason's hair, feel my throat grow sore but just can't STOP "So, so much. Oh..Alfred."

There is a shift of movement, and Damian encloses my other side, so I am completely surrounded by a wall of younger brother, and it feels good, safe, but...but the grief just keeps coming. Whenever I calm, I'll think of a kind touch or gentle reprimand, and it will all come flooding back and-

Damian moves his lips against my temple. He's...he seems more tactile than before, is that...?

"I'm sorry." I croak, hoarsely, wipe furiously at my eyes "I just WISH I could have said goodbye, he..." blank eyes, empty eyes, beloved eyes, glassy eyes, and torso, NO torso, just a mangled mess of "Oh God."

"Jay, bucket, NOW."

Something hard and plastic is shoved into my lap, and I lean over it obediently when bent by fretting hands, but am not actually sick, can't vomit, there's nothing to bring up "His...body..." I dry heave, faze in and out of the mutterings behind me...

"...st traumatic stress..."

"...st shock, I think. But this is not good for him."

"He needs this! ...healthy."

I sit back, shake uncontrollably, wipe my mouth, but feel, feel...a little better, the tides receding, still unbearably sad, but...ok "He...he had a good life...didn't he? And...and he knew we loved him..right?"

Damian's cheek is against mine. Tim is close. Jay is back in my lap. I breathe them in "We'll...we'll be alright." I'm still crying, but I smile openly around at them, all together, with me, here, and that's good, that should be celebrated, it's precious "We're all together, so...Alfred would have been so happy to see that." the tears well up again, but I don't sob, just let the sadness engulf me, drain me "I wish he could have seen that."

I'm being rocked. I let my head roll against Tim's (bony, I'll have to fatten him up, buy some cake) shoulder, and sigh, and relax, a little. I'm so tired.

"...strongest of all of us."

"Sleep, Dick. You need to rest. You have been through enough for today."

Click...huh? Something...dripping in my arm...mmm...

"...n't tell him. Don't be ridiculous."

I blink, suddenly, struggle, but hands hold me "Tell...me what...? Tim! Damian...? What..."

I am getting so tired, of being put to sleep...is that...weird?

~tbc~


	23. Chapter 23

~Prodigal Son, Chapter 22~

~Tim POV~

Dick is eventually back to sleeping. Although that is admittedly because we sedated him. He needs the rest, to be able to adjust to this trauma, the waking up, the movement, everything. And if left up to his own devices, I doubt that he would be able to sleep without having nightmares about the car. About.. about Alfred.

He is asleep, and safe, and we are here to protect him, the same way he did for us.

I sit on a chair, and watch as things calm. Damian gets out a puzzle to play with Jason, and Dick is resting normally, like he is in a coma but not; he is alive, well, healthy, and recovering, which is the main thing. It will take time, but Time is something we now have.

Eventually the sensation of feeling very, very dirty creeps up on me, and I excuse myself to have a shower. It is a little weird, even to my mind, to comfort someone after having sex. Specifically when Dick is that someone.

I don't take too long; it is quite easy to find my locker, and the clothes that I had abandoned in favour of scrubs, shoving the hideous blue things into the haz bin. I try not to wash too many times, as I don't feel the compulsion, but still end up doing it more out of habit and muscle memory. Ah well, at least it is only twice!

There is a page waiting on my pager when I get out. Damn it! I still haven't told him! When I re-enter the hospital room, I ask Jay to lend me Damian, and take him outside. This.. is a little awkward, seeing as I forgot to say anything for a day or two. But we were a little preoccupied with.. various escapades.

"Hey. I thought I'd let you know that the final circulation of Colin's treatment was a success. He no longer has any venom in his blood. The concentration is so low its entirely negligible. And.. I just got a page. Apparently he is speaking in full sentences."

Damian stares at me. Then I get a kiss. Well, if that's going to be the reaction I get every time I do something for his friends, perhaps I should be dong it more often. He looks hesitant however. "Go on, go and see him. I'll watch over Jason and Dick."

And he is gone, quickly out the door. I don't honestly blame him for it either.

The next hour or so passes in peace and quiet. Jason is still doing his puzzle, which I help with. Then he is babbling and talking, and playing with Lexus. It is.. just nice.

That is, until a nurse comes into the room, with the phrase "Dr. Drake, you might want to see this. " She silently hands me a news paper.

My stomach drops out, and acid burns my throat as I see the title page.

" Crippling OCD; Insanity strikes another heir to the Wayne throne. "

~Jay POV~

S'finally quiet, in th'room n' in my head, after Dickie cries but it's the good kinda cry an' at least he's awake an' around now. Dee helps out with my puzzle cos he wants to, an' I let him, but I'm puzzlin', puzzle puzzle, gotta solve it, gotta work out how to put her bloody pieces apart.

Some dumb bint nurse comes in but m'playin' with Lexie so I ignore her. But then Lexie rolls into Duckie's foot n' something papery goes flutter flutter SLAM on th'floor. I sit up on my skinny skinned knees "D-Duckie...?"

I can say stuff, but jus' when it's only us, my special people. Duckie won' move. I crawl over n' poke at the paper, read. Nutty, Timmy nutty. No.

I pull at his leg but he's all still n' stiff, so I stand up n jus'...be a lemon "Timmy...? Ya...ain't..." I swallow cos I wanna say the right stuff, make it better "not mad. NOT. Stupid people...jus'...don' geddit."

I put my finger on his chest n' stroke out my special special secret rhythm that calms me soooths mmm "Th...this...helps. S'a...pattern in a pattern. Like, airtight."

Fib-o-nacci. Archie tellin' fibs. I wanna hold Duckie like he holds people "I wanna hold you...but you won't like it, an'...you try...real hard, to do stuff ya don'...like..."

I HATE HATE HATE not helpin'. But I'll not go boom an' try...try ta..help. I pick Timmy's lil hands up an' put them on my big big heart, try ta make it beat in time "I th-think...Timmy is...intelligent, n', kind, n', brave, n', strong. And we, the special...people...your special people...like you a whole lot...more...than th'cunts out there."

I shake my head so hard th'horns go limp n' soggy "Not mad. Not. Jus'...sad."

He's lookin' at me n' I smile the secret smile I put in my pocket when I got blown up, shhh "Come back so we can kill her?"

I think I am going to be sane again for a little while. Nobody makes my little brothers hurt.

~Tim POV~

She published it. Fuck. I think I'm going to be sick. No, come on, control I have to stay here. I'm not leaving Dick or Jason alone after what has happened over the past twenty-four hours. MY fists clench tightly. She PUBLISHED it, that little BITCH. I don't know what i feel first. Anger, or fear. But they both intermingle, and I feel myself winding up tight, like a spring. What I am waiting to do however, I don't know. Explode? Bounce?

My brain supplies "Murder Vicki Vale" But that is not entirely helpful.

I try to concentrate on pushing down my breakfast, which was only really coffee, away from my throat. It is not doing what it's told. One hand goes in front of my mouth to force it closed.

Jason is talking. Then he is drawing. I am quivering like a leaf, but his fingers are spelling something. I concentrate on that. They're numbers. 0 is first. Then 1. Then another 1. A pattern. A puzzle. I can fix on that. I can solve those things even if I can't do anything right in real life, and it ends up coming to bite me back in the ass.

2,3,5,8, 13. It goes on. The Fibonacci. Although it would be a gross overstatement to say that I am calm, it helps. I can feel myself sucking in air again, like I'm supposed to be doing. Fists gradually uncurl, and lay flat against the scratchy material of the chair.

Jason may be childish, and can put on being insane, but he is sweet in his assurances. Telling me I'm not mad. Saying that he wants to help. It is just a shame that I want to wash my hands over and over. His duck is in my jean pocket, and I try to remember the rule. Only once, each time. I haven't even used it yet, for fear of ruining it.

I am shocked out of silence when my hand is placed on a pulse. And Jason's voice turns very serious; he sounds utterly sane when he speaks of murder. And I can't say I blame him after all that Vale did to him.

My hand balls in his shirt. "Thanks Jay. Thank you. " Its all I can say. Jason is sane at least for the moment, and I am not sure to be happy or worried.

~Damian POV~

Colin had seemed so...content. He was calm. He was not in pain. He was not, exactly, cheerful just yet, but just sat and bathed in the sudden quiet in his body. And he was very pleased to see me. He told me so, in faltering, pig English, but it is a start, SUCH a start. I am going to reward Tim for this, somehow.

Maybe...perhaps...dinner? Ugh, now my cheeks are flaring. Curses. I have not yet had that chance to stick my head in a bucket of water.

I take the stairs of Gotham Central two steps at a time, feel...light. Tim is...here, and with me, and staying. Jason seems better. Dick is awake. Colin is cured, for now. If there are deities, maybe they are seeing fit to smile on us, just this once.

I first realise something is terribly wrong, when I walk into the room to find Jason sitting, upright, in a chair, legs crossed idly on his knee, reading what appears to be the playboy section of the newspaper.

"Hi, Damo." he says, without looking, and he sounds...oh no...is...is this good or bad? "Heads up. I'm sane again. Break out the cake."

He salutes sarcastically as I turn to question Tim, who is white, whiter than white, white as I sheet, and my stomach plummets, check Dick, but no, he's fine, then take Tim's elbows gently "What's wrong? What's happened?"

He wordlessly holds out the rest of the paper. I take it, frowning-

Oh.

WHAT?

That- that- something explodes, snaps, blazing and apoplectic in me, HOW. DARE. SHE!

"That BITCH! I'm going to FLAY her until she's wearing her FUCKING CUNT ON HER HEAD!"

I blink, as Tim's blackberry goes off, and Jay sticks a finger in his ear and twists, and mutters "My virgin ear canals, seriously."

~Tim POV~

I should really stop checking my emails. Perhaps if I did, things like this would stop happening. God, this is so fucked up. I've really made a mess of things this time.

Damian is livid. And I am grateful for that. Jason appears to be more sane than I am, and I'm thankful for that too. Who would have thought I could have gained such a reaction over someone attempting to ruin me (nerves, career or otherwise) a couple of weeks ago. It would have been utterly impossible. But that doesn't change the fact that Vale put my face, and my biggest weakness in the paper, and all I can feel is this penetrating shame, which has lodged itself somewhere in my cardiac muscle, like a parasite, not letting go.

_I'll ask you one last time. Where is Bruce Wayne?_

There are five attachments to the email. I download one at a time. The are the worst of the arsenal that she has. Not that I don't find them good pictures. I'm sure one day I'll look back on this and be glad that there is some evidence of this, but not the type of evidence that I want in the papers. It would ruin Damian. Gods know what it would do to Jason. And me? Well. In the time it has taken for my life to do a 180, I have come to care less and less about the aftermath effect on myself.

I will be affected, and as pained if Vicki hurts family. It is a very strange thought that floats across. Shit. This is going to be so hard. I'm going to have to leave, to protect him.

The email is slowly typed. I send it. Four words. Four words that are going to rip up any semblance of a normal life. At least for a while.

_I will find him._

I hold onto Damian's forearm as if it is a lifeline, trying to convey my thoughts in a single grip. I am coming back. I'm not going to leave permanently. I love you. I'm sorry. Please, please trust me to do this for you. Fuck. I want to be able to say it aloud, but my throat has closed up on itself.

"I have to go. " I finally spit out, voice sounding choked. "Away. Away from Gotham. " I look at Jason. He nods, unsmiling. The sincerity and intensity reminds me of Damian. It is controlled. Unlike anything I've ever seen. "I'll be back. There's.. there's something that needs to be done. I can't tell you. But please trust me. I will come back. I promise. " I keep my eyes downcast, and can't bear the expression that will be on Damian's face.

I breath the hold - if I don't I will end up giving him a bruise. Make your rounds, Timothy, and leave. Do them now.

I squeeze Jason's shoulder on my way to Dick. Press a light kiss on the latter's forehead. And Damian. Damian.

It is so painful, I want to cry. Someone is ripping a scalpel through my chest, and I'm awake. He looks confused. Concerned. Eyebrows knitted together at the top of his brow in an expression entirely owned by him. I don't care that Jason is in the room - I press my lips firmly to his, laying one hand on his waist, the other cupping the back of his head.

I wish emotion could be conveyed in a caress. But I'm so useless at this whole fucking physical contact thing, that I doubt it would be.

I rest my head against his forehead. "I love you. Don't forget. I'll be back soon. " I can't even muster a smile. There's a film of lacrima over my eyeball. Damn it, don't you dare cry!

Leaving is the only thing left to do. Deep breath. I pull away, and walk away.

Kindly, no one comments about silent tears that are dripping onto the hospital floor.

~Damian POV~

He does not give me a chance to say goodbye.

But that is because it is not. Goodbye. It is NOT. He said so. So why...why did it FEEL...so very much like a goodbye? The linger, the want, the sadness...and he left so fast. A run. Almost. No. He promised. He said.

I think, unbidden, of the stream of 'fuck n' runs', as Jay put it, before beating the shit out of them. But this is not like that. Tim said. Mine. Yours. His. Mine. It feels so cold now. He's been here, with me, at my elbow, behind my back, in front of me, for so long. The smell lingers. Like a ghost.

He left before. Didn't come back. Not for ten years.

SHUT UP. You will stop this. Stop fretting like some- some woman. You should be ANGRY. Angry to be left unknowing in the DIRT like some damsel in distress awaiting her highwayman. I should go after him. Ask- no, demand an explanation! But...but he's probably already gone.

I ache so hard for him it is almost a burn. Pathetic- OW!

"Quit bein' such a mopey Mabel, kid. Fuck me. What the crap is this shit, Gotham Girls?"

I allow Jason to distract me with various things. Battleships, which I lose. Chess, which I lose. Monopoly, which I win, and confiscate four of his knives in payment. I cannot even bring myself to smile. Jason fidgets, becomes rapidly irritable. I had forgotten how aggravating he could be when he 'chooses to be sane'. He worries me. No. Concerns me.

Dick's even breathing is a comfort, but he is not Tim. Jason whistles, softly, as if he can hear my thoughts "Woah, hobbit. Ya got it reeeeal bad, huh."

"You are not helping." I hiss. He smirks, cocks his head to the side. Folds his arms "Yeah? Neither are you. Grow some balls, kid, and quit crampin' me. He said, didn' he? Trust him."

It would not be the shame, so much as just his absence, like a cold, irreplacable chunk of me was simply gone.

I have become an utter cliche, and I do not even CARE. I need him. He...I feel...like I belong with him. I have a place. That he finds me geniunely...interesting. Intriguing. Wants to look below, inside, and actually LIKES what he sees there.

...fuck.

I need him like air. I need SOME air. I can't breath. I grab my coat.

"Where you goin'?"

"Out."

"Where?"

To drink myself into blissful oblivion, so when I wake up...if I wake up...I will be too sick and fucked in the head to care that he is gone.

"OUT."

~Tim POV~

The next few hours are unbearable. I pack as quietly as I can, quickly, not disturbing the sheets. Not able to go into the bathroom. Damian lingers everywhere. It's ridiculous. I know that I'm coming back. But that support constantly, the unwavering strength. It scares me how much I've come to depend on him in such a short period of time. I have to leave the flat without taking much. It is almost overwhelming. I instead pack a very, very small bag.

Computer. Phone. Passport. Wallet. One Change of Clothes. A few vallium still lingering in the top drawer. That is all I need for what I am about to do.

I get a taxi to the airport, get to the desk, tempted to ask for a ticket to anywhere. But instead I choose to go back home. Japan. The safest place to be.

I wanted to go home so many times, and now I'd rather be in Gotham? A place full of crazies, vigilantes, and my family.

But that word doesn't have negative connotations to it anymore.

I make a big show of leaving using the Wayne name. Wayne cars. Wayne drivers. Making it look as if I am leaving under the name Wayne, even if it is Drake. Technically, my passport is Drake, but there are plenty of IDs in my wallet which have the double barrel. I use one of these at the airport.

Stepping on the plane is the so inevitable that I find myself freezing up just thinking about it. The stewardess asks me if I am alright, if I have a phobia of flying. I laugh mirthlessly. I guess, really, this time, I do.

Thirty minutes onto the plane and I can't take the sensation. It is easy to swallow down two vallium, and I am knocked out for the rest of the journey.

~Jay POV~

S'really very weird. Bein' sane again. Kinda...refreshin'. Minty. Clean. Aaaaah. All the cobwebs in my brain bloooown away. Man!

"Isn't it awesome!" I exclaim, lookin' down from the FANTASTIC view of Vale's apartment "Sweet pad, Vicks! Musta cost a bomb."

She doesn' answer. Prolly cos o' that big fat ball n' gag in her mouth, got it at the pet store. For mouthy bitches. Yeeah. Her teeth dig into it and her pretty pretty lipstick is smeared all around it like a whore. Ho. Nice lipstick. Moulin Red?

"Y'know..." I hum a lil' bit, whiistle while you woooooork~ "Ya may be a crazy cunt, but honeybun, ya ain't got nothin' on me."

Actually, she has. Cos I ain't mad. Well...m'not sure. Does it matter? All that matters is what you believe. I lay out some pictures o' Bruce on the coffee table, spill a half o' glass o' wine, an' really, it ain't so hard to make her seem like a crazed, suicidal stalker. Creeeeeeeep-ey.

Hm. I think I'll be cruel "Bruce Wayne is dead, yanno. Dead as a doornail. Whatever the fuck that means, cos I dunno. Ya gonna die. And ya gonna die for no reason, other than that ya couldn't keep yer big, fat, plastic nose outta my family's business."

Damn silly thing is, I can' even REALLY enjoy this, cos...well I'm kinda too pissed. Cunt. Bitch. Makin' Dickie cry. Duckie scared. Dee leave an' get sloshed off his pert ass. Aaaah, well. It's been real. But no time to dilly dally, Jaybird.

I smash the glass gradually, carefully, with various shit, throwin' it, like a girl, as though I'm pissed, which I am. Eventually, it shatters, comes down in a big shiny sheen cascade. Pretty!

I stick her, slowly untie but keep my knife in her neck shh shh shhhhh, not a sound "Here's a story for ya. It'll make the front page, too."

Here's the punchline. We're 30 storeys up. When she hits the ground? Ain't gonna be nothin' but sludge ta show th'bruisin' n' the cuts.

"Suicidal Loner Journalist Throws Self to Death." I whisper, in her ear, then kick her over the edge. Exeunt, the Reporter. I yawn, stretch listens to the screams down below "Tragic, that."

Gotta run. I'm beat. Gonna fly away home, back ta Dickie, get me some fries, curl up, n' sleep til Duckie get's home.

~Tim POV~

When I finally reach my flat, I am utterly exhausted. My head is pounding, my limbs aching. My.. the organ that is forcing me to function is aching as well. I literally have the keys in the door when I recieve a message from Jason.

_Business concluded. That'll be a gazzilion dollars, and a real Lexus, Timmy_

That means she's dead. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Now just to get rid of the evidence. I painstakingly hack the stock market's trade system, and make it look as though any stocks she had disappeared a few weeks ago (setting the date back a little isn't so hard. Removing the money from her account and into an anonymous one is). Then change her work record to make it look like she was put on probation weeks ago - I know that this business won't have been on record anyway, so it should fly.

The last thing to do is to wipe evidence of Damian and I. It will be on a computer somewhere. I break into every single system registered under Victoria Vale or the aliases I discover. A lot of them have been tampered with already, and Jason leaves a little Red Hood cartoon dancing all over them. Cute, Jay.

I make a cup of coffee. And start packing my things. I'll have to come back here to move most of my stuff anyway, but there are a few essentials I can take. Clothes, camera, technological bits. I hesitate. At the bottom of my wardrobe are all the things that Dick sent me over the years. A scarf that he knitted. Some scientific books and medical books that are vellum bound and first editions. This year's gloves... I don the watch which was from a few years ago, after I graduated, and shove everything into a small suitcase.

It is then that my pager goes off.

_**Patient in hospital. You are listed as next of kin. Hospitalised for OD. Gotham Central. Contact 391-855-9572**_

I respond. _Name?_

_**Damian Bruce Wayne**_

Please, God. No.

~Damian POV~

I...am sooooooo...wasted. It's...AWESOOME.

The world doesn't just- mmmmm- tilt on its axis, it actually- careens around and upside down and spiiiiiiins...I'm, spinning around...move out of my waaaaay...

So why the f-fuck am I still craving him?

I should be ball deep in someone's ASS bye now but I CAN'T caause...cause I want him aaand just him with me and I don't want him hurt and I want him safe and HERE dammit, dammit, DAMN YOU TIMOTHY FUCKING WAYNE!

I go to mel...mew...suddenly bang my fist on the bar hard but I miss and go down, bang bang. Owwwww. My head...my tailbone...my everything...my fucking HEART...please...Tim...I think I'm gonna blub like a cunting baby and it's all your damn fault for being so pretty and nice and...

"Hey there, sweetcheeks!"

Hands on my arms help me up, brush me, brush me...allover...linger...hnnn...no...I smack them.

"Aww, don't be like that! Look, you seem rich and miserable."

I nod slowly "Yeeeah? Sooo?"

"And like ye need a bit of FUN. Y'know. An escape. Wanna forget? Wanna have a good time?"

Oh...I...I don't know. I don't want to forget him...want...but if I can just stop thinking...wanting...craving his skin and his eyes and his mouth and his hair and his voice and TIM...fuck...I hear the snap of my wallet and feel my fingers jabbering and shaking and handing over crispy green freshness.

Lips, yellow teeth and stale and ugh against my neck "This'll make it aaall stop, baby. G'ahead, go try it."

I think I gotta go first...there's something sharp clutched in my hand. Forget. Yes. No more pain. No more feeling. This will help. This will cure me. Don't think about...intravenous...drips and...dripping and his fingers on wires...and IN you...

"FUCK!"

I run. Gotta...gotta set things back. To where I first, where it all...I fall, I fall lots, it hurts, but I make it. To hushed stone and cold wood, shhh, quiet for...the...the sermon. I sprawl, where he sat, where his ass was, in the pew, in the shadow of a pillar.

My fingers know. Find the vein, steady, steady, steady as she goes. Push push in, liquid heat, and I GROAN, because...it...reminds me of him, inside me...dammit...stop just STOP please go AWAY don't be a ghost Tim please please please...

At first, it feels good. So good. I fly.

Then, it starts to hurt, not as much as him, gone, does, but nonetheless, I cry cry cry.

~Conner POV~

Damn it, he's freaking gone again! I swear, Tim is like a bouncy ball – push too hard and he ends up flying away and you can't find him. I want to forget about this whole thing, and how bad I messed up. Cos it's always my fault, right? I miss something, or misinterpret. And things end up turning to shit. Or at least that is what people tend to say.

I am currently flying over Gotham. Merrily trying to make myself forget about things. Skimming through hardbeats.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Heh. S'like a drum.

I'm flying over the mean streets of Gotham. Man I hate this place. Nothing like Smallville at all. All dark and shadows, with no light for anything. Its easy to see how any bat would get depressed around here.

I'm torn from thought as I hear something. There are a couple of heartbeats that are way too fast, and usually I don't care – they're junkies, and hobos, and people having sex, but this time, I recognize the heat signature.

And its going way, way too fast. Like a heartattack.

I circle the area to try and pinpoint where its at. Its Damian's heartbeat for sure! Oh no, is he actually having a heart attack? That'd be seriously bad. Thank God I was flying over at the time!

I land next to a church. It is very easy to see that it's the church Alfred was buried in. I know I didn't go and all, but it was in the newspapers and all. As was that horrible thing about Tim's OCD. I mean, I knew he HAD some form of weird thing, but I didn't realise it was OCD, nor did I think it was that bad!

The church is quiet. I don't see him at first as I walk through. Huh. My hearing isn't lying, because I can still hear the erratic beating. Breathing's become audible too and that sounds troubled.

I rush over. He has a needle sticking out of his arm, and looks less than conscious. Shit. Shit. What do I do? Fuck! Oh God, he's going to die and its going to be my fault?

Hospital! I need to get him to hospital! Crap, where is Gotham County again? Or Gotham Central? Which one do I go to?

I fly as fast as I dare, Damian clutched to my chest, and eventually find Gotham Central, and rush him in. No one even bats an eyelid when I land, because I'm so distraught, and there's a dying person in my hands! Damian, please don't die. Please please don't die!

They take him from me, and move him out of my hands. I try and call Tim, but no answer. Fuck, what am I going to do?

~Tim POV~

I'm on a plane faster than a shot. I paid a ridiculous amount to get the fastest jet there is on a moment's notice, but I don't care. The journey time is cut in half. I scrabble with the one bag I thought to pack. I don't think I even locked my flat in my hurry to leave. Who cares? If it gets stolen, that'll be so insignificant in comparison to what could happen- - If Damian.. No. I can't think about it.

Gotham airport is a blur. I'm sleep-deprived and panicked, and all but run through security. They attempt to stop me, thinking I'm a terrorist or something stupid like that. But I explain. They check me, and I'm allowed to leave. Precious moments wasted.

I hotwire a car. Its gonna bite me in the ass later, but I just don't have TIME. I'm sure a speed camera flashes whilst I drive. It barely registers. I don't get into a crash luckily, but that is because it's the middle of the night.

When I finally get to Gotham Central, they people there almost don't recognise me; I look dishevelled. Panicked. Stricken. All over the place really.

They direct me to his room just as there is a long beep. The long, telltale screech of someone's heart deciding they have had enough.

Damian looks white as marble. He's not moving. Not breathing. I don't either.

I slam a fist on the window I am forced to stare through so hard the nurses look up. The doctor in there is concentrating.

No. NO. Don't you DARE fucking die Damian Wayne. Don't you DARE. I will NEVER forgive you.

I think I say it outloud. People are averting their eyes as I get more and more hysterical. My heart is in my mouth. I can't breath. He's still flat lining and I'm counting the minutes in my head. Three minutes until brain damage.

Come on Damian, you can't die now. You can't! Everything's .. everything was going to be fine!

Its not my fault is it?

Is it?

2 and a half minutes. 29 . 28. 27 – still flatlining – 13. 12. 11. 10—

I have never been so grateful to an heart monitor. They have a rhythm. The rhythm stays. He's not going to die.

The doctor eventually comes out to fill me in. I listen numbly. I'm shaking like a leaf from not eating, and not sleeping, but it doesn't. Because he's alive. He's going to be ok. He had.. God, he had Cocaine in his system.  
What the hell was he doing?

Doesn't matter. He's alive. Breathing. Heart beating. I collapse in a chair next to him, gripping his hand. Someone brings me a cup of coffee, but I don't have the strength to drink it. I try, but it ends up scalding my hands because it spills over the brim, due to my unsteadiness.

That doesn't matter either. I'm not moving until he wakes up. Not even to wash my hands.

~Jay POV~

Dickie sleeps like th'fuckin' dead. Breathes deep, real deep, an' I watch the twitch o' his fingers just to remember that he ain't dead. Or comatose. Just...sleepin'. Sleeping like a big greyin' baby.

Timmy shoulda called. Should be BACK. What's goin' on? I...did good, didn' I? I got the bitch? Got back in time? Got a nurse seein' me sleepin' on Dickie's lap? S'all good! So why?

I do th'jigsaw. Love the Saw movies. Break it up. Do it again. Break it up. Fuck. There's a whoooole load a' commotion downstairs. Think I'll watch TV.

"Coming to you live from Gotham City Hospital, where the scandal of the Wayne heirs continues in a shocking new development, the youngest, Damian Wayne, the late Bruce Wayne's only biological son, is rumoured to have been brought in last night by none other than Superboy, having overdosed on cocaine-"

Awwwww, FUCKIT, Damian, you dumb lil shit. Crap crap crap crap crap crap CRAP this is bad. OW what the-? S'fuckin' SEARCHLIGHT in my eye!

"-this footage of the eldest two Wayne's, Richard Grayson and the somewhat controversial Jason Todd-"

I yank the blinds closed jus' as the helicopter circles round for a peek. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK. I gotta get downstairs. Shit. Gotta be sane. But gotta be insane, shit. Shit. SHIT.

I leap down the stairwell. Tousle my hair, pull on a shifty look, be nutty, harmless nutty, fragile nutty. Pull it up. Pull it on, like n'old coat. They're layin' siege to Damo's room, th'fuckin' parasites. I fold my arms around myself too tight an' walk, slowly, they notice. Go quiet. Know th'danger o' me. But they love their story. Fuckers. FUCK.

"M-Mister Todd! Are the rumours-"

"I got something to say." I murmur, softly, insinuate this lil' shake in my voice. Knead at my arms. They all go very, veeeeeery quiet, huddle forward fluffy microphones close as they dare.

"Jus' ta shake things up...I got a question for YOU people to answer for ME." I gnaw at my thumb, but keep my eyes borin' borin' BURNIN' into the screens n' their round pale faces "Do you want to watch us die?"

Silence.

"Do you enjoy watching us die?"

Shifty looks. I don' grin. Can't. My brothers, my family, my own, mine.

"You want a story? I'm mad. My second youngest brother is not. My eldest brother was dying. My youngest brother is." I clamp down, feel a trickle of blood ooze down my sleeve "Because he saw what Vicki did. She was a bad girl. A mean girl. And you're all bad, mean people, too."

I shudder, play it up, Jaybird, keep it cool, eaaaasy now, let my eyes slip shut "Turn around. Go away. And leave us alone." they snap open, an' now I let all the ANGER and the fuckin' HURT and th' INJUSTICE, FUCKIN' INJUSTICE! "You. Are. Killing. Us."

They look at eachother. Squeak n' shuffle like rodents, with a clickity click click of dyin' wires n' technology, an' go. I don' watch. Turn, kick the stupid beige door open, march in, grab Duckie under th'armpits n' crush him to me, but gentle, gentle. Ya can' even see nothin' cept some legs n' shiny hair around my arms.

"C'mere, Duckie." I wait for him t'start shakin', bear the weight, go rubba-dub-dub, three men in a tub, who do ya think they beeee, tell Fibs, Fibonacci, against his back.

~Tim POV~

I can hear Jason outside, talking to the people that have been gathered at the window pretty much since I got inside. He is defending our family in a way that I couldn't. The media dogs listen to him in silence – it's the first time I have EVER experienced media silence. But when its questionable as to whether or not you are insane, it is perfectly valid for the media to remain still, and not ask you the questions that you don't want to answer.

Then I am ripped from Damian's side by him, tugging me up, keeping me close. It is enough to crush me, and I almost wish it would, but he eases, and is gentle. I fall still. Don't move. Can't cry.

I rest my head against his collarbone eventually and find it a little comforting. My fingers fist in the back of his shirt. You know the world has gone to hell when you're having to be protected by someone who chose to be insane because of the hand life dealt him. And I can feel the guilt of that seeping through my veins. But I can't ... he.. it's calming.

Eventually he puts me down long enough so that I can stand and make a move back towards my previous position - back to Damian. He drags me into his lap. I don't move to get off. Instead adjust so I don't feel uncomfortable.

And almost fall off when Damian moves.

~Damian POV~

I think, therefore I HURT.

A dull, penetrating ache, so deep and strong like the sound of a gong that it sets my bones shaking. I'm prickly all over, have needles, EVERYWHERE, sticking in and out and around and up and down and GOD it-

My eyes fly open and SHIT SHIT SHIT it HURTS! It's excruciating and hot and cold and burning and freezing and I thrash about but my arms flop, useless, tied, and my heart is beating so hard it might BURST oh God fuck am I dying? I don't want to die! I wanted to but just a little nononononono-

"Damian."

There's a face a voice all blurred and dark and light and white and I know you, I know you I love you, you're- you're-

My fingers with plastic on the end WHY shake, shake too hard, can't find his cheeks then do, rub, soft, soft, so soft, beautiful beautiful blessed "Y...you came back."

I sound filled with wonder. I am filled with wonder I'm...in...? "...mnnnn...how...did...where? I don't...I..."

And then it hits again and the agony is so BAD I arch up and grab his face then let go because I hurt him I hurt him and what did I do, what did I DO? I did something something wrong very wrong-

"...hurts." I choke sob choke at him, reach but can't- can't "I...I don't feel so good."I want him near but want him to go because because I'm filthy and base and no good and AWFUL "T...Tim?"

A needle in my arm. A hole. Hurt. No. I didn't. How can I...? Beast. Son of the Demon. BASTARD, they were all right all true-

"Oh...God..." there's vomit in y mouth but I swallow it because I deserve it deserve to driown in my own filth WEAKLING weak weak WEAK, traitor! "I'm so-" I try to fold over on myself but it HURTS, so I cover my eyes with my arms and bite down til they bleed "sorry, so s-sorry, sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry-"

~Tim POV~

Damian is awake. And alive. But mostly awake. And thrashing, and it's killing me to see him like that. The small awed voice makes my heart want to split in two. It was my fault. The reason he is in hospital, this way, is because of me. And it almost more than leaving did.

I wince when he grips my face, and move from Jason's lap to sit on the bed next to him. Gather him up. Keep him close. "I'm so sorry, I can't give you anything. I'm sorry. " And he is mirroring me, apologising. I seat him up carefully, and pull him back into me, so that I can just keep a grip. Keep well in the knowledge that he's there. Jason hands me a bucket, and I keep it in front of Damian just in case.

"Don't apologise. I know it hurts, but please, try not to move. It'll only hurt more if you do. " I whisper next to him, pressing my lips to his forehead, and realising with horror just how hot he is. Physically for once, not metaphorically. I push the nurse button on the bed, and request a tub of cold water and a sponge. I forgot that OD patients often get high fevers after an endotracheal tube. It is their livers healing.

I dip the sponge in and begin to wash cold water across his forehead, in one sweeping motion. The other hand rubs very gently over his stomach to try and soothe the pain it is undoubtedly causing. He is rested against my shoulder. I want to be able to take the pain away. Remove it from him, or him from it. But it's not going to happen, not for a while.

I'm shaking badly now. But it doesn't matter. Its entirely physiological. I can't hold Damian tightly yet. But I will, soon enough.

"Its all right, I'm here. Came back. I'm here Damian" I don't know whose benefit the words are for. I rock him gently, and keep sponging. Down his neck, under his collar. Up his arms. I try not to notice the needle track mark. I still haven't asked what he ODed on, but that answers it for me. Cocaine.

My grip on the sponge tightens, but I keep going. He's beginning to calm. I wash the blood of his arms as well, with the teeth marks.

"It's going to be ok. " I wish I could believe that

~tbc~


End file.
